


Homecoming

by Slow_Burn_Sally



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cannon Divergence, Eventual Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-19 04:57:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20651564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/pseuds/Slow_Burn_Sally
Summary: I tried to write a Sherlock fic probably six years ago and was too shy or too insecure to get more than a few paragraphs in. And then Good Omens happened and I found it somehow easier (and years had gone by) to write GO fanfic. I've written a ton of Good Omens stuff, but I still wanted to return and finally finish that Sherlock fic I never had the courage to write, back before I'd written my first real fic.It's just your average post Sherlock death, reunion, slow burn fic. I love these two and wanted to write their reunion as a cathartic thing, as Sherlock was the fandom that first introduced me to fan fiction in general, almost 9 years ago now. I hope you guys enjoy. Kudos and comments are endlessly appreciated!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to write a Sherlock fic probably six years ago and was too shy or too insecure to get more than a few paragraphs in. And then Good Omens happened and I found it somehow easier (and years had gone by) to write GO fanfic. I've written a ton of Good Omens stuff, but I still wanted to return and finally finish that Sherlock fic I never had the courage to write, back before I'd written my first real fic. 
> 
> It's just your average post Sherlock death, reunion, slow burn fic. I love these two and wanted to write their reunion as a cathartic thing, as Sherlock was the fandom that first introduced me to fan fiction in general, almost 9 years ago now. I hope you guys enjoy. Kudos and comments are endlessly appreciated!

The days and nights of John Watson in the year after Sherlock’s death had blurred into a repetitive, gray haze. He got up, went to work, came home. Heated up a frozen dinner in the microwave and watched some telly in his chair, resolutely ignoring the empty one across from him. He then went to bed, usually between two or three in the morning, bleary eyed and with a head full of negative, roiling ideations, tossed and turned for a few fitful hours, then got up and did it all over again. He was numb. He knew it was the effect of the grief he felt over Sherlock’s passing, mixed with the trauma of having witnessed Sherlock’s black clad form plummet from the roof of St. Bartholomew’s hospital as John’s own heart plummeted to his feet and smashed into a thousand pieces. 

He dutifully went to see his therapist every Thursday evening after work, sat across from her with his hands clenched in his lap and his eyes gazing hollowly out the window at the tops of the buildings across from her office, at the birds flitting through the sometimes slate gray, sometimes bright blue sky. He answered her questions as clearly as he could. He resolutely avoided talking about Sherlock until she pressured him into it, and when he finally did speak up, it was out of a sense of obligation, because he truly liked his therapist and didn’t want to be a difficult patient. He hated being confrontational, perhaps just a tiny bit more than he hated talking about his feelings regarding the death of his dearest friend. And so, at least once in a session, after they’d chatted about his work stress, his non-existent home and dating life and his family issues (usually involving Harry’s struggles to stay sober and John’s extended, three hour phone conversations with her, often at three am), the topic always strayed back to Sherlock. 

“Are you feeling up to talking about it today?” His therapist asked. She didn’t need to specify what “it” meant. Her large brown eyes full of sympathy, she leaned forward in her chair to give John every ounce of her attention. He really respected her kindness and her professionalism, but a small part of him hated her for poking at his wound this way every week. Still, he knew that he could only grieve aimlessly for so long before he moved forward with his life. It had been a full year. A listless, anguished, depressing year without the person he cared about the most in all the world. If he didn’t get past this eventually, it would do him in. 

“I suppose so” he remarked glumly, bravely tearing his eyes away from the buildings and the sky outside the window to look in her general direction. He trained his eyes on her left earlobe, taking in the details of her small, gold earring and the curly dark hair that surrounded her ear. “What do you want to know?”

“Well John.” she began with a sigh. One he knew was sympathetic, rather than long suffering. “It’s been almost a year since he passed”

“Since he killed himself” John amended with a bitter tone. “Can we not say ‘passed’, like it was a peaceful death in his sleep? He dashed himself against the street after leaping from the roof of a very tall building”

“Of course John. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to minimize the circumstances of his death” 

John felt a pang of guilt over having snapped at her.“No. no. I get it. You’re just trying to do your job. I didn’t mean to be difficult” he mumbled, hands twisting together in discomfort.

“It’s alright John. You’re entitled to a lot of frustration and anger… and grief. What you feel is never wrong and I understand why you’re upset” She was always so understanding and patient. “I just think it’s high time we dug a bit deeper into that grief so that we can start to break some of it up.” She could also be quite direct and quite persistent. 

“Ok. fine. Dig” John somehow found the courage to meet her eyes and saw calm, sympathetic support there. He took a deep breath and prepared himself for the feelings he usually kept tamped down to come bubbling to the surface. 

“John, I hope you don’t mind me saying, but it doesn’t feel as if you’re actually living your life right now. It feels more as if you’re going through the motions. I’m concerned that your grief over Sherlock’s death might be transitioning from a natural way to express emotional pain, and may in fact be becoming harmful to you.”

“No kidding” This was nothing John himself hadn’t struggled with, hadn’t been aware of already. Why the death of his best friend had affected him so much more strongly that even the death of his parents, more than any breakup with a girlfriend. He knew he was disproportionately hung up on Sherlock’s absence, but lacked the words to explain why.

As if reading his mind, his therapist asked “Why do you think it is that this has hit you so hard?” her voice careful and soft so as not to scare John away from the emotional work she was trying to draw out of him. 

John took another deep, shaky breath and did his best to marshal his thoughts into words. He’d had a year to process and go over his feelings surrounding his friend’s death, and he knew a few things to be true that he still struggled mightily with expressing out loud. Maybe now was the time to try and get them out? 

“There’s a lot behind why Sherlock’s death has hit me so hard” he began tentatively. “I’ve told you about how insanely intelligent he was. How he pulled me out of my inertia and dragged me into his crazy life. I told you about how hard I worked to get along with him and how insufferable he can be. Jesus, everyone knows how insufferable he can be. The guys at Scotland Yard, the press, even the people who’s mysteries he solves can barely stand the bastard” John felt a small smile make its way across his face at the memory of all of Sherlock’s startlingly rude comments and his cocky attitude. “He woke me up in a big way” he continued, feeling a lump rising in his throat and swallowing it down resolutely. “He made me want to enjoy life again. To take an active part in the world around me. That was a big deal” He couldn’t help but feel he was validating his connection to Sherlock. As if he needed an excuse for caring as much as he did.

“But despite the fact that he was a genius and the fact that he got me out of a tough time in my life, he was truly my best and dearest f-friend” He stumbled a bit on the last word and looked back out of the window again, gathering his courage. 

“Go on” his therapist prompted gently. She clearly didn’t want John to sink back into silent worry. Wanted to push him to emote or express what he was hiding inside. John hated her a little bit, but he knew she was right. 

“He was hard to get close to” John continued. “Always pushing everyone away as if he couldn’t bare to be known, to be… l-loved” He hated the way his voice shook as he got closer to the crux of his anguish and pain. He’d always prided himself on emotional stoicism. An army doctor had to, or the gore and grief would eat you alive. But he acknowledged that in this instance, transparency and vulnerability were integral to growth.. To him getting past this. He trusted his therapist too. Trusted her not to judge him or scold him. “But..” he continued in a voice thick with emotion. “He actually let me in. Just a little at first. Let me into his life with him in Mrs. Hudson’s flat. Let me in on his job with the police. He let me listen to his genius deductions and shared his suspicions with me. And that was… that was…indescribable. To be that close to someone so on fire with genius. Someone so very electrified by.. by … inspiration . He was so intimidating and glamorous, and he picked me.. Me , the nondescript army medic who just wanted a flatmate.. He picked me to share his life with.”

As he spoke, the words came more easily to John. He felt emotion well up in his chest, and for once, he didn’t tamp it down. He felt tears fill his eyes at the memory of life with Sherlock and how good that had been, and he let them well up and slowly tumble down his cheeks. He’d broken out of the bounds that kept him from speaking his true thoughts and feelings, and now there was no going back. He sincerely hoped this would result in a lessening of the grief and anguish he felt, because he already felt flayed open and he hadn’t yet gotten to the core of his feelings. 

“But then, as the months went by, he let me in more and more. He told me about his childhood and his issues growing up. He let me see his problems with addiction. He let me see his vanity and his rage and his vulnerability. He let me see how isolated he’d become, always being the smartest person in the room, and simultaneously being the biggest bastard about it, and how that drove everyone away, when he desperately needed people to stick around. To see him. To help him.

“And more than that, he listened to me about my issues too. He counseled me on how to deal with Harry. He let me lean on him when things got rough. He leaned on m-me” John stopped for a moment to suppress a sob he felt welling up inside his chest, then swallowed it down and continued, not because he was opposed to crying, that would be part of the grief process.. More because he didn’t want it to derail him before he could finish. 

“After a while, he finally let me pretty much all the way in. Let me see the real him. The him that was scared of not being the smartest one in the room. The him that felt lonely and misunderstood and the him that needed other people. Needed Mrs. Hudson. Needed Lastrad. Needed Molly. He let me see how much he needed… me”.

And now came the most difficult part. The thing that made losing Sherlock hurt the most. He had been hiding it from himself and from his therapist and from everyone else he knew for a long time. “It wasn’t until after he died that I realized something about our connection” he began, marshalling his courage and looking resolutely down at his well worn, brown loafers as he spoke, unable to meet his therapist’s eyes. 

“I realized that my feelings for him went… went beyond friendship. I… well.. I loved him. I still.. love him. I…” He found the sturdy emotional wall he’d built around these feelings deep inside and pushed against it, felt it give a bit under the onslaught of his need to come clean. 

“I’ve always considered myself a heterosexual person” he continued, knowing that the words would immediately clue his therapist in to where this confession was going and not caring anymore. “But.. I think it’s high time I acknowledged that I was... attracted to him. Very attracted in fact.” He risked a glance up at his therapist’s face and saw understanding and kindness there, instead of the confusion or distaste he almost feared he’d see. It gave him the strength to continue.

“It took me a long time to recognize it for what it was, this feeling. Even though Mrs. Hudson and virtually everyone else joked about us being a couple, I always corrected them with reminders that nothing like that was going on. That I was  _ straight _ . I felt I had to be pretty adamant about that and I wondered why.

“It started out as affection. I liked spending time around him, even if he made me want to throttle him every five minutes with that insufferable attitude of his” and now he did smile, broadly, at the memories of Sherlock casually tossing out hurtful comments in his deep baritone and of himself, yelling at the man with his fists clenched. It was a daily occurence, and somehow it didn’t lessen his affection for the tall, pale man in the slightest. 

“But eventually, as we got closer” he continued, “it turned into something else. Something that made me pretty uncomfortable. I spent a lot of time in denial. I dove into my dating life with extra fervor, not that it did me any good. I think I had a lot of internalized homophobia. The army isn’t all that understanding of same sex attraction, and I’d honestly never been attracted to another man before this. So it was rough to come to terms with it. But there was still no denying the fact that I thought about him in that way, quite often.” He paused here, unsure of how to continue. 

His therapist saw an opening “John, what you’re describing is very natural and perfectly normal. It’s a common occurrence for people who’ve always considered themselves straight to become strongly attracted to a person of the same sex. It happens all the time. Nothing wrong with it.”

“Yeah.” he replied, grateful for the encouraging words, but still feeling uncomfortable about his confession. “Yeah. I’m aware of that, but I just never thought it would happen to me. Still, it  _ did _ happen. Boy did it happen. I fell pretty hard”. There . He’d said it out loud. He felt a rush of relief at finally getting it out. This thing he’d wrestled with for so many days and nights. 

“So you see… the reason I can’t get past this. The reason I’m struggling so much is because he wasn’t just a friend . Not just a companion. He was… He was… so much more than that to me. I was… In love with him. I’m still in love with him.” 

The tears were flowing steadily now, in hot tracks down both of his cheeks. He let them flow. He looked up again and saw his therapist had a small smile on her face and a sad look in her eyes. “John” she began gently. “Thank you so much for opening up to me. This is really good, what you’ve done here by telling me about these feelings. I suspected something of the sort, but didn’t want to presume. I hope that getting this out will help you to process more of your grief, instead of holding onto it.” She had reached down next to her chair to grab tissues with a cheerful pattern of daisies printed on the cardboard of the box and offered them to him. John gratefully grabbed a few and wiped at his face, blew his nose. He felt a bit embarrassed, but also, deeply relieved. He’d finally gotten it out, and in a safe, supportive environment. A private place where he could finally unburden himself.

He suddenly realized that he felt light and free in a way he hadn’t felt since before Sherlock’s suicide. He took a deep, cleansing breath and gave a genuine smile. “My!” He exclaimed with a sniffle “It felt good to finally get that out”. His therapist returned his smile. She was clearly glad he’d turned this corner. He felt a flush of gratitude for her. She had been ever so patient and supportive over the past year. 

Their session was almost over so John bid her a nice evening, and after her reassurance that he was welcome to discuss his feelings for Sherlock with her anytime he felt the need to, he left her office and headed home. He couldn’t help but notice that he had a small spring in his step and a lightness in his heart that hadn’t been there in the longest time. Not since the moment he looked up, cell phone plastered to his ear with shaking hands and had seen Sherlock, standing like a forlorn, dark raven up on top of the hospital roof. It felt good. It felt like he was alive again. 

He realized that he’d been hiding his love for Sherlock for so long that he hadn’t had the chance to truly grieve. He’d been keeping it inside and letting his pain turn into a cold, hard boulder in the center of his gut. How could he cry over a friend in the way he truly wanted to cry over Sherlock’s death? Why had he felt so bereft and so broken over Sherlock’s death if they were simply friends? The truth, that he’d been rather deeply in love with the infuriating detective, lent validity to how ripped up inside he’d become. And he hadn’t allowed himself to see that, and as a result, had not allowed himself to grieve. 

That night, as he lay in his bed and looked up at the darkened ceiling above him, lit fitfully with the headlamps of passing cars, he’d finally let loose and cried. Had sobbed uncontrollably, clutching a pillow to his face so as not to alarm Mrs. Hudson. The tears kept coming and the sobs wracked through his body with a physical force that scared him a little bit. He’d never cried like this in all his life. Not from the horrors of the battlefield. Not from any other loss. 

He cried for everything that could have been if Sherlock had lived. If John had ever summoned the courage to confess his feelings to the man. Perhaps they could have found happiness? They’d at least have had honesty between them. And if Sherlock hadn’t returned his feelings (god only knew what that strange statuesque man with the ice blue eyes ever felt on the inside), they could have remained friends. He could still have warmed himself with Sherlock’s rare smiles. Could have kept assisting him on cases. Kept yelling at him for driving John round the bend with his snarky condescension. Anything would have been better than no Sherlock at all.. Forever. 

Eventually, John’s sobs slowed and ceased. He was exhausted and, holding his pillow in his arms to comfort himself, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. 


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, John woke feeling fully refreshed for the first time in a year. He sat up in bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and was surprised that he was actually hungry, for real food, not just a toaster pastry and a cup of black coffee, but some actual, honest to goodness English breakfast. He resolved to himself to stop for a proper fry up on his way to work this morning. 

The sun looked extra bright pouring in through his dusty curtains, and he actually started humming to himself a bit while he was in the shower. A weight had been lifted, a weight he’d been holding onto for a long time, and he was glad to have it gone. Maybe only temporarily, but he told himself he’d enjoy the strange light feeling and the happiness he had bubbling up inside himself as long as he could as he walked to the tube station to head to his office downtown. 

He found himself thinking of Sherlock often this morning, as he spoke to patients and gave instructions to his secretary, but not in the tragic, sad way he had for the past many months. Instead, he found himself wistfully imagining his friend as he remembered him most fondly. How tall and slender Sherlock was. How handsome he was with his pale blue eyes and tousled curls. His high cheekbones and ivory skin. How he’d make John laugh one minute and make him want to tear his hair out in frustration the next. John now felt free to allow himself to think of Sherlock in this way. He could let himself remember his departed friend as an object of romantic passion, and as someone he loved and missed, rather than trying to force his mind to suppress those thoughts out of self imposed homophobia. He felt his heart swell with bittersweet affection as he remembered Sherlock’s long, beautiful fingers flitting through the air as he’d talked about this or that case. Let himself dwell on the memory of the sound of Sherlock’s deep, sonorous voice.. That voice that had started to make John’s knees weak if he didn’t carefully prepare himself to hear it. He remembered the heartbreaking sound of Sherlock, playing the violin late into the night. The sight of his pale hands twitching across the strings, pulling the bow back and forth with languorous surety. John remembered how his heart had skipped a bit the first time he’d seen Sherlock play the violin. These were good memories. Positive, loving memories and it felt wonderful to allow them out into the sunlight of John’s conscious mind for the first time since Sherlock had died. 

The day went by swiftly, rather than feeling like an endless gray eternity like it usually did, and John began to hope that he might have escaped the deep depression he’d fallen into over the past year. He stopped by the market on the way home and picked up fresh vegetables and some chicken, intending to make a stir fry for dinner, rather than the usual frozen meal for one. He’d invite Mrs. Hudson up to join him, and they could have a glass of wine or two and share funny memories of their favorite, maddeningly obstinate detective. She’d reached out many times during the first few months, trying to offer him company and support and he’d gently pushed her away, wanting to be alone in his misery. He felt bad about that, and wanted to make it up to her.. To welcome her back in as a dear friend. 

As soon as he stepped in the door to 221B Baker Street though, he knew something was wrong. Mrs. Hudson had to be home, but the downstairs flat was silent, and there was a familiar smell in the air that he couldn’t quite place. A cologne? A cleaning product? What was it? Whatever it was, it made his pulse race unaccountably. He carefully put his groceries down on the small table in the foyer and went in search of Mrs. Hudson. He found her, sitting on the couch in her living room, face pale and hands shaking where she had them clasped together in her lap. 

“Mrs. Hudson! What’s wrong?!” John rushed to her and sat next to her on the couch, placing a concerned arm around her shoulders and a hand on top of hers. She turned to look at him with large, shining eyes, her face almost devoid of color. John knew the signs of shock when he saw them. He placed a swift hand to her brow and then felt for her pulse at her wrist. Before he could look for injuries though, she finally spoke.

“John” she whispered in a tremulous voice. “John, I think you should go up to your flat right now”. 

“What? Mrs. Hudson what’s the matter? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Was there a break in? Are you hurt? Please, tell me what’s happened!” He felt a thrill of panic shoot through his stomach at the thought that something awful could have happened to her while he was away. But she only smiled, a wan, watery smile and repeated herself “You should go up to your flat right now John. Just please go”.

“I’m not leaving you Mrs. Hudson. Should we head to the hospital? You’re exhibiting clear signs of shock and you shouldn’t be alone right now” his mouth had gone dry and he’d broken out in a cold sweat at his elderly landlady’s strange behavior. Mrs. Hudson was a paragon of matronly normalcy. To see her unsettled was deeply concerning. She had the sense to pat him reassuringly on the hand, and strangely, she smiled, a genuine, happy smile while tears spilled out of her eyes and down her cheeks, making wet tracks down to her trembling chin. 

“I’m fine dear. I’m fine. I just… need a bit of a lie down and you need to go upstairs right now. I can’t… I can’t explain. He made me promise not to give away the…surprise.”

John’s eyebrows rose up to his hairline upon hearing her strange words. This whole situation had his hackles up. “Who made you promise? Is someone here? What do you mean surprise? Mrs. Hudson please , tell me what’s going on”

She only repeated her request again, a third time “John, please, just go on up. I’m sure it will all come clear soon enough”. Her smile unaccountably grew even wider. This was all very strange. John relented though, slowly rising from the sofa to go fetch his groceries and head upstairs. He had no idea what awaited him at the top, but if it was making Mrs. Hudson smile the way she did, he assumed it wasn’t a burglar. He made it up to his flat and was concerned to see that the door was unlocked and slightly ajar. He always locked it when he left for work, and if Mrs. Hudson ever entered his flat when he was out, to put packages in for safekeeping or to bring up some dinner, she always locked it again after herself. John felt his pulse kick into high gear as he contemplated the dark crack of the open door. 

Cautiously, he nudged the door further open with his foot and peeked inside. The interior was dark. Of course it was. He always turned all the lights off when he left for work each day. There was a dim light filtering in from the street outside which spilled in a narrow band across the oriental rug on the floor of his flat, but aside from that, the place was shrouded in shadows. Great John thought. Whatever or whomever is up here will have the advantage on me from the get go. With a stern reminder to himself that Mrs Hudson, shocked though she seemed to be had been very insistent that he go upstairs, and that she would have no reason to send him into an ambush, he pushed the door further open and stepped into his flat. 

He was immediately aware that there was a man standing behind the chair by the window. A tall, dark presence who’s outline he could just make out in the dim light spilling in from the hallway. “Who’s there?!” he asked, disappointed by the clear note of panic he heard when he spoke the words. 

“Hello John” came a reply in a deep, rumbling voice that crashed against John’s ears and caused a jolt in the pit of his stomach. 

“Who are you?!” he was in full on panic mode now. The voice sounded like… sounded like... He didn’t have time to finish the thought though, because the man had stepped forward, a bit further into the light coming in from the door and John saw the oval of his long, pale face coming into focus. The high cheekbones and soft lips, the dark hair, shorter than John remembered ever having seen it. Another step and John could see the man’s ice blue eyes, and that was the last thing he remembered because he felt the bag of groceries drop from his numb, trembling hands, heard the dull thud as the bag hit the floor. Darkness rose up around him and he fainted. 

_________________________

He came to slowly, an indeterminate amount of time later, feeling the hard, unyielding wooden boards of his sitting room floor underneath him. His head was pounding and his eyes were closed. He slowly opened them and looked up into a pair of worried, pale blue eyes, beneath expressive brows. 

Sherlock. _SHERLOCK!_

He let out a shocked gasp and tried to sit up, but stopped with a groan as a sharp pain exploded at the back of his skull.

“You hit your head on that oak coffee table on your way down” he heard Sherlock’s voice, _Sherlock’s_ _voice_ say from somewhere above him and his eyes flew open again, the considerable pain in his head almost forgotten. And there he was. Kneeling on the floor next to John, long, expressive hands on his knees, head tilted as he looked down at John as if John were a wounded animal he’d come across in the road.

“What?... What?” John’s brain had stopped functioning. He would have thought that he was dreaming if it weren’t for the dull, throbbing pain in his head. Perhaps he had died when he fell? Did people feel pain in heaven? Was this heaven? Would Sherlock have even been allowed in if it were? He knew his brain wasn’t making sense, but nothing made sense now. The world had turned completely upside down. 

Suddenly he felt a surge of nausea well up inside him and he started to gag. He felt Sherlock’s hands on his shoulders, helping him turn onto his side (away from Sherlock) so that he could vomit onto the carpet next to him without drowning in it.  _ Drowning in my vomit. Wouldn’t that be the perfect ending to the strangest day of my life _ . He thought absently while his stomach clenched and convulsed and he lost that nice breakfast he’d had earlier in the day in a long, sickly hot gush. 

“There there now” Sherlock murmured awkwardly over his shoulder as John continued to retch. He felt a warm hand making stiff circles against his back as he gagged again and again. Finally, when he was pretty sure he’d thrown up every last bit of food he’d eaten during the course of the day as well as several things he hadn’t eaten, his vomiting subsided. He lay curled on his side, shaking, shocked and in pain for a few moments, with his eyes screwed closed, completely at a loss for what to do next. Soon though, the horrid smell of what he’d just done drove him to roll back over onto his back again. He put a hand to his mouth to wipe away the spittle and spare vomit and looked back up into the deeply concerned face of his dead friend. 

“You… YOU !” he yelled, wincing at the pain this caused. He managed to struggle up to a sitting position and scooted backwards away from Sherlock in a crab walk scramble, putting some distance between them. Eventually, he clumsily slid on his backside to the living room sofa and leaned gratefully up against the side of it. His heart was pounding and his mouth was full of the rank taste of bile. He watched Sherlock (could it really be him??) reach out a hand after John, his face suffused with a strange look that John couldn’t quite process in his present state. 

“How.. how could you? How did you?” John was unable to execute a full sentence. He felt dizzy and still a bit nauseous. Suddenly, the strange state he’d found Mrs. Hudson in made sense. She was lucky she hadn’t had a heart attack at the sight of seeing Sherlock again. John felt anger rising up inside him sudden and hot as he watched his friend getting slowly to his feet and switching on a floor lamp. Yellow light spilled into the sitting room of John’s flat and now John could see Sherlock more clearly. It was indeed him, though his hair was much shorter, as if growing out from being buzzed, and he had a bruise on his forehead, above his left eye, turning from purple to yellow, clearly from something that had happened a few days ago. He was wearing a very nice, dark blue suit, the jacket open to reveal a partially unbuttoned starched white shirt, indecently tight as usual. 

He looked so extremely good. John’s insides had a small civil war between wild joy and abject rage. 

He angrily dismissed his rambling, tumbling thoughts and feelings and struggled to get to his feet, using the sofa behind him as a tool to help himself stand. Sherlock took a step towards him, clearly hoping to assist, but John put out a hand in warning. “Keep away from me!” he yelled in a horse voice. “Keep away! Don’t you  _ dare _ touch me!”

Sherlock recoiled in surprise, having the audacity to even look a little hurt at John’s harsh words. But he didn’t come any closer, and he let his hands drop back to his sides. John focused his energy on standing up, a task that took quite a bit of concentration. He kept getting dizzy and swaying as he got his knees up under him and braced himself against the arm of the sofa to foist himself to his feet. He kept his wide, disbelieving eyes trained on Sherlock, and every time he swayed on his way up, he saw Sherlock lurch forward almost imperceptibly, wanting to help him, but keeping his distance nonetheless. 

“John” He spoke in that velvety deep voice of his. John flinched but continued pulling his body up into a standing position “John, I think you may have a concussion. We should get some ice on that head wound” His voice was matter of fact as usual. Portraying no emotion, which was infuriating, as John had several different extremely difficult emotions roaring through him at the moment. He finally managed to stand up all the way, supporting himself on the back of a nearby chair, and was staring in shocked anger at the dead man in his living room. 

“What are you doing here Sherlock?” John’s voice shook and gripped the back of the chair with white knuckled hands. “You died.  _ I saw you die Sherlock _ . How are you here?”

“John, vomiting is a clear sign of concussion, I think you shou-”

“ _ How are you here _ ?!!” Bellowed John and through a renewed wave of nausea, he was distantly satisfied to see Sherlock jump a bit at the outburst. “You have to tell me right now Sherlock or I swear to god I will throw you out a window!”

He was shaking all over now. He watched helplessly as Sherlock crossed the living room floor towards him. He tried to hold up a hand in protest, but he needed both of them on the chair back in order to stay upright. Instead, he settled for a weak “don’t” which Sherlock resolutely ignored. He watched in confusion as the tall, slender, quite obviously not dead detective swiftly closed the space between them to stand disturbingly close to John. Keeping his steady, ice blue gaze trained on John’s, Sherlock gently pulled one of John’s hands from the chair in front of him and before he could collapse, the detective had ducked underneath John’s arm, settling it across his shoulders, smoothly inserting himself against John’s body to help hold him up. “Come on” he whispered. “Let’s get you to the sofa.”

Having him this close was too much. John felt his knees buckle under him, felt himself lean his weight against Sherlock’s long, sturdy frame. His other arm came up and wrapped itself about Sherlock’s neck, and suddenly they were embracing. He pulled Sherlock’s body tightly against his own and heard a sob escape mouth at the contact. To his incredible relief, Sherlock returned the embrace, if only to keep John from collapsing completely. His arms came around John’s waist and he pressed the side of his face against John’s cheek. John dissolved into helpless sobs, weeping uncontrollably into the fabric of Sherlock’s suit jacket. He tightened his arms around the other man’s neck and wept. Sherlock simply squeezed John about the waist and let him cry.

It felt amazing. And terrifying. And still John could not stop sobbing. Sherlock held him tightly, patiently, rocking him back and forth a bit and humming a meandering tune in the back of his throat while John spilled out all the pain and grief and anguish of the past year against his shoulder. After what felt like a long time, John’s sobs slowed into hiccups and then stuttered to a stop. He tried to pull away from Sherlock, realizing that he’d utterly embarrassed himself, but Sherlock wouldn’t let him go. “You’re weak and probably concussed John. Please let me help you lie down and we’ll get you some ice for your head.”

“Not until you tell me what’s happening” John mumbled brokenly into the now destroyed material of Sherlock’s expensive looking suit jacket. He pulled back to look at his friend and was suddenly very aware that their faces were only centimeters apart. Sherlock was staring into John’s eyes with that icy, piercing look he got when he was very focused on something, (usually a minute detail that would become a clue to help him solve a case) and John was aware that he couldn’t breath. He tried in vain to push himself further away from Sherlock, away from the smell of his cologne (the same smell that had haunted Mrs. Hudson’s flat when he’d first gotten home), away from Sherlock’s intent gaze and the feel of his arms around John’s waist. He needed distance… distance and time to deal with this. He couldn’t get any distance. He couldn’t pull away...

The world began to spin around him, and Sherlock’s eyes seemed to recede into the distance strangely. The world grew dark again. 


	3. Chapter 3

He’d lost consciousness again. When he awoke, he was lying on his couch and Mrs. Hudson was at his side, in a chair she’d pulled close to the sofa, his hand clasped in hers, a very worried look on her face. “Where is he?” he mumbled blearily. God, his mouth tasted as if something had died inside of it. His head was still pounding and his throat felt dry and stung when he tried to swallow. 

“He’s in the kitchen dear” Replied Mrs. Hudson with a swift glance over her shoulder. John could hear banging, shuffling noises issuing from the direction of the kitchen. He relaxed a bit into the sofa cushions beneath him. Someone had placed a warm blanket over him and added an extra pillow behind his head. He could feel it’s softness against the throbbing pain that still lingered dully at the back of his skull. 

“Hard to believe isn’t it?” Mrs. Hudson asked wistfully while she absently stroked John’s hand with her own. “Our Sherlock. Alive and well and back in the flat!”

John didn’t feel like he had the strength to give an opinion on this development at the moment, “I need water” he croaked out, letting his eyes close for a moment. 

“Sherlock dear! Would you bring John some water please?” 

John heard a deep rumble from the kitchen and a moment later, he heard heavy footfalls coming in their direction. John’s eyes snapped open and he looked up into Sherlock’s face as the tall, slender man returned from the kitchen with a bag of frozen peas, wrapped in a plastic bag and a glass of water. Mrs. Hudson stood up and let Sherlock take her place in the chair by John. Sherlock sat, and passed John the water. He sat up a bit and drank it down in a series of swift gulps, keeping his eyes trained on Sherlock, as if the man would disappear if he didn’t keep watching him. Sherlock had an infuriatingly amused expression on his face. John considered hurling the empty water glass at his head, but then settled for passing it back to him. He had to preserve his strength after all. 

“Lift your head for a moment John” Sherlock asked, and John obeyed. Sherlock placed the frozen peas behind him on the pillow and John gingerly settled himself down on them with a crinkling noise. The coldness at the back of his head felt good. He was torn between wanting to gaze openly at Sherlock and at wanting to angrily avoid looking at him. Why was that man always evoking such conflicting feelings in him? He felt tears threaten to well up again and forcefully pushed the frustration and sadness down with an act of will. In the end, he chose to stare resolutely at the ceiling, trying to train his facial features into complete neutrality. Anger was simpler and safer to hide behind than grief. 

Or love.

“Come now John. Don’t be childish” came the baritone rumble to his right where Sherlock still sat in the chair by the sofa. 

John’s screwed his eyes shut and he grimaced in anger. “Childish?” he hissed out through clenched teeth. “Childish?! I wasn’t the one who faked my own death Sherlock!” The yelling hurt his head, but he didn’t care. 

“I had good reasons John” Sherlock replied in that infuriatingly rational tone he used when talking about things that were far, far from rational or normal. Things like why he’d stored a zip lock bag full of ears in the freezer, or why he’d used John’s favorite teacup to hold corrosive poisons, rendering it unsafe for the consumption of tea ever again. 

“Good reasons like what Sherlock? Because I am simply dying to hear them!” John kept his gaze on the ceiling. He’d be damned if he’d let the infuriating detective’s handsome face or velvety voice move him one inch towards forgiveness. If he had been able, he’d have been out the door and down to the local pub to get very very drunk. To find some way to deal with Sherlock being there, larger than life, smelling like fancy cologne and looking like someone out of a Hollywood spy movie. So close, too close to where John lay on the sofa. He gritted his teeth and waited for Sherlock to respond.

“Now isn’t the time John. You need to focus on getting better”

“It bloody well  _ is _ the time Sherlock!” This outburst caused his head to throb again painfully and he reached both hands up to his face and breathed in and out slowly, trying to calm his pulse. Trying to collect his emotions. “You were  _ dead _ Sherlock. I’m not sure if you realized this, but they made you a headstone and everything. A headstone I visited, and cried next to and brought bloody flowers to, because I thought my be-.. My best friend was buried underneath it. How could you let me grieve like that? How could you disappear and l-leave me alone like that!” 

Now he was crying again. He hated crying in public, in front of anyone let alone in front of the person who made him feel the most vulnerable in the world. 

“John” Sherlock’s voice had gone soft and he gently reached out and grabbed one of John’s hands that he’d brought up to shield his face, grasping it between both of his own and squeezing gently. John let him do it. He didn’t know what else to do. And to be honest, it felt good to have Sherlock touch him. They’d rarely touched before the detective had “died”. A nudge here, a pat on the back there. A rare hug around the holidays. John had always been an affectionate person, and Sherlock had always kept himself at a distance. Though, John had often noted with satisfaction and confusion, that Sherlock let John touch him, and reached out to touch John more than anyone else in his life. And then there was the way society looked at two, supposedly straight men touching affectionately that had kept John at a distance. 

He felt the fight bleed out of him as Sherlock’s warm, calloused hands continued to hold his own. He turned his head to finally look at his friend and was surprised by the expression on Sherlock’s face. The brooding detective was staring at John with a tender look. His brows knit together over his pale blue eyes. His soft lips pressed into a worried line. He was leaning forward, knees on elbows, gazing at John with what was clearly affectionate concern. 

John felt his breath hitch in his throat and his heart skip a beat at the sight of Sherlock’s face. It had been so long that he’d imagined seeing him again, and those thoughts had always caused pain and grief when followed swiftly by the realization that he was dead and gone forever. And now, here he was, alive and well and holding John’s hand in his warm grasp. He couldn’t help but stare back into those ice blue eyes, to let his gaze hungrily sweep over Sherlock’s face, drinking in his high cheekbones and pale forehead and finely shaped eyebrows, and his soft, full lips… John took a deep shuddering breath.

“Here you are boys. Tea and some of those biscuits with the icing on top that I know you both like!” Mrs. Hudson bustled in, thankfully breaking the mood and causing John to rip his eyes away from Sherlock’s face to grasp the cup of tea Mrs. Hudson handed him. Sherlock leaned back and accepted his own cup, releasing John’s hand in the process. 

“Thank you Mrs. Hudson” he mumbled. He took a sip and grimaced. “Too much sugar. You’d think, Mrs. Hudson after me living here for such a very long time, you’d learn how I take my tea”

“I’m your landlady, not your mother dear” Mrs. Hudson tutted while giving Sherlock’s shoulder a fond slap as she passed by. “Well, I’ll be off. I’m sure you boys have a lot of catching up to do. I don’t want to be a third wheel.”

Just this once, John didn’t mind his landlady’s implication that he and Sherlock were an item who needed a private reunion. Her assumptions had moved closer to the truth over the past year after all, hadn’t they? At least they had for John. God knew how Sherlock felt about their relationship. 

They could hear Mrs. Hudson’s shoes clunking their way down the stairs, could hear the door to her flat click shut, leaving them truly alone. John busied himself with looking into his teacup, having suddenly lost the courage to look at Sherlock. 

He heard the other man clear his throat, preparing to speak and silently braced himself for whatever the detective had to say. 

“How’s Molly?” Sherlock asked, completely throwing John for a loop. 

“She-She’s fine Sherlock. She’s probably grieving just like the rest of us, but she’s fine.”

“Oh no. She’s not grieving. She knew the whole time”

John couldn’t believe his ears. “She wha-! Sherlock! Molly knew?!”

“Yes of course John, don’t be an idiot. I needed her expertise to fake my death. I needed someone I could trust to help me make it convincing.” He must have seen John’s flinch at the words ‘I needed someone I could trust’, because he continued in a slightly softer tone “ Of course I trust you John, but you’re not a forensic pathologist and a mortician are you?”

John supposed he understood. And to be fair, Molly had been so besotted with Sherlock, he was almost glad she’d been in on it. Thinking he’d died would have probably done a number on her.  _ Because you’re apparently not besotted and it didn’t do a number on you now did it? _ His brain supplied unhelpfully. 

“Where were you Sherlock?” he came out and asked it plainly. Without yelling. Without anymore fainting (he hoped). “What happened?”

“It’s all rather complicated John. I can’t tell you the details of how I faked my death. There are too many people involved that could be in a lot of very deep trouble if certain other people found out about all that. But there was a lot of work to dismantle Moriarty’s worldwide network of spies and criminals that had to be done before I could reveal myself again. The whole world thought I was a criminal and a murderer. I had to clear my name. And I had to take down Moriarty’s agents so they wouldn’t come after me again. Or Mrs. Hudson. Or you… I had to keep the people I care about safe.”

John felt a flush of warmth upon being referred to as someone Sherlock ‘cared about’ and admonished himself for being such a helpless puppy dog, yearning for Sherlock’s affection and approval. To cover for the lapse, he snapped back at the detective “But I couldn’t have been one of the people you told could I Sherlock? Me.. the person who knows you probably the best out of everyone. You couldn’t have clued me in?? You had to let me grieve? You had to let me go through all that? Why?”

Sherlock turned ice blue eyes in John’s direction and sighed deeply. “John, you really are mentally deficient. How exactly would everyone believe I was truly dead if my closest friend wasn’t actually grieving? You were an important part of my plan. Without your real feelings of loss, no one would truly believe I was gone. And I have to commend you. You really went off the deep end for a while there. Very convincing. It was extremely helpful to my mission”

John’s hands around his teacup grew white knuckled with rage. “You! You!” He spluttered, reaching for words to describe the searing hot anger he felt rising up inside of him at Sherlock’s casual attitude and failing miserably. “I can’t  _ believe _ you! Have you no idea what I went through when I thought… I… I.. “ He spluttered, not knowing how to continue. 

“Yes, I do have an idea. I bugged the flat so that I could keep an ear on you”

“ _ You what _ ??” John threw the blanket off of him and struggled to sit up, ignoring the resulting pain in the back of his head. Sherlock however swiftly put a firm hand to his shoulder and pushed him back down to a reclining position. “Sherlock! You bugged the flat??!”

“John, don’t be difficult. I didn’t listen all the time. I only checked in every few days to make sure you were OK. I can generally tell how you’re feeling by the way you fill up the tea kettle and how you put your shoes on in the morning. Also, the way you get into bed says a lot about your general mental state... so I simply listened for the appropriate sounds and then left off listening. Although last night, you made quite a lot of noise with all the crying and what not. I’m surprised you didn’t cry more honestly.”

John had moved past anger into a numb sort of incredulity. “And how does a man filling a tea kettle and putting on his shoes while lost in a pit of bottomless grief over the death of his best friend  _ sound _ exactly Sherlock?” he demanded. 

“Just like normal, only slower and more clumsy. More shuffling of laces and clanking of the kettle against the side of the sink. If you must know” Sherlock had the audacity to sound proud of himself. 

“If I weren’t injured I’d throttle you” John gritted out as he let himself relax slowly back onto the bag of peas. He did notice how Sherlock carefully pulled the blanket back up over him. It was a very small consolation. “And is it over now?” he asked, a small twinge of dread in the pit of his stomach that maybe Sherlock would say he had to leave again to take care of more international business somewhere. 

“Yes John. It’s over. Everything can go back to normal now” He smiled his infuriating smile, and for once, John did not smile back. 

“Nothing can go back to normal Sherlock. You pretended to be dead for a bloody year . It… well… it changed me inside, thinking you were gone for good. I need some time to recover. Some time to find out how I feel about all this. I’ll let you stay here and I’ll stay with Harry for a while.”

He was mildly satisfied at the look of fear and disbelief that flitted across Sherlock’s face upon hearing his words “Nonsense John! You’ll stay here with me, like usual. Like always. I can’t have my partner in crime living somewhere else. However will you help me with cases?”

“I’m not helping you with cases Sherlock. Jesus you-” John stopped, closing his eyes and taking a deep, calming breath so he didn’t start yelling again. The man’s ability to overlook normal human emotions and his failure to grasp the emotional context of any given situation bordered on psychopathic. “I need space, away from you. I need to process. I can’t handle being around you right now”

Sherlock looked genuinely hurt and confused “Whatever do you mean John?” His innocent expression and the sadness on his handsome face made it even harder for John to say what he had to say next. 

“Sherlock. You being dead. Me...thinking you were dead. It hurt me in a very deep place. It changed me. I.. I… cared for you quite a bit-”

“I care for you too John! John don’t be daft-”

“Just shut up and let me finish!” John’s outburst effectively silenced Sherlock, who shut his mouth with a soft snap. “What I mean to say is that.. When you care about someone a great deal, and you think they’re gone forever, you get used to thinking that you’ll never see them again… Seeing you again. Well, it’s very painful for me. It hurts because I don’t know how to talk to you now. I don’t know how to be around you. I’m so angry Sherlock. So hurt and so angry that you’d leave me on my own to feel like that. That you didn’t give me some sign that you weren’t dead. It was very very hard on me”

“So you keep saying” Sherlock interrupted briefly. 

“See?! And when you say things like that, offhand and casual like that, as if this weren’t a big deal.. It just.. It just tears me up inside Sherlock. I need space. I need to wrap my brain around you not being dead”. 

Sherlock looked genuinely perplexed and actually somewhat concerned. Was that sadness John saw reflected in his pale blue eyes? It didn’t matter. 

“As soon as I can stand up without feeling like my head is on fire, I’ll pack a few things and head to Harry’s. Like I said, you can stay here with Mrs. Hudson.. Get acclimated again and settle in. I’ll be back eventually. At least I hope I will” he finished with a sigh. 

“What do you mean ‘at least I hope I will’ John? Why are you being so difficult? Surely you must understand why I couldn’t tell you?”

“I need to rest now Sherlock, so if you don’t mind, could you please just leave me be for a while”. He saw genuine hurt in Sherlock’s face as the consulting detective rose slowly to his feet and wandered off towards the kitchen. 

John closed his eyes, wanting to shut out the mad circus that Sherlock’s reappearance had made of his life and his mind. Not that he preferred the reality from earlier today, when he’d just been coming to terms with Sherlock’s passing. No matter how angry he was, it was better to have Sherlock alive and near him than dead. But things were complicated. His feelings were complicated. When he’d first watched Sherlock plummet from the roof of the Hospital, he’d felt his world smash apart. The sight of Sherlock’s lifeless (or so he’d assumed) body, leaking bright red blood onto the street, of Sherlock’s pale eyes looking blankly up at the sky, had haunted him for many months afterwards. 

And then, after the shock had started to wear off, the realization that he felt far more than simple companionship and friendship for his departed friend had hit him like a ton of bricks. He’d had to reassess his entire sexual orientation, on top of dealing with the grief of losing someone who meant something entirely different to him than he’d previously thought. 

The last time John had felt normal had been the day before Sherlock had leapt from the hospital roof. When they’d been hot on the tail of Moriarty’s killer, running handcuffed through the streets together, dodging police and desperate searching for clues to clear Sherlock’s name. OK, so perhaps that hadn’t been the most normal of days, but it had been somewhat par for the course when one lived and worked with a borderline sociopathic genius consulting detective. 

Now however, John did not know what to think or feel. So he shut it all out and closed his eyes, feeling the reassuring coldness of the bag of peas pressed against the back of his head, the firmness of the sofa cushions beneath him. He purposefully slowed his breathing and worked on relaxing the tension from his arms and legs. 

________________________________________

He must have dozed off, because when he woke, it was morning. Weak sunlight was peeking through the crack in his living room curtains. He sat up slowly, pleased to feel that his head wasn’t pounding the way it had been the day before. He swung his socked feet to the floor and slowly stood up. He felt a small moment of dizziness, but other than that, he seemed much improved. 

He listened to the sounds of the flat and heard nothing but the distant noises of traffic outside. He could hear Mrs. Hudson, below them, bustling about making her morning tea most likely, but their flat, he and Sherlocks’ flat was silent. He slowly walked down the hallway to Sherlock’s bedroom and found the door ajar. Slowly pushing the door open farther and peering inside, he could see the shape of Sherlock’s long lanky body under the covers, his dark head resting on the pillow. John allowed himself an indulgent moment to simply stand and take in the sight of his dear friend, back in his own bed, asleep and innocent. As if the past year hadn’t happened at all. Only Sherlock’s hair was shorn short, rather than the dark tousled curls John was used to. 

With a soft sigh John pulled the door mostly closed and went further down the hall to his own bedroom. There he threw a few clothes, a couple of books, his revolver, a case of rounds and his cell phone charger into a small duffle bag. He dressed quickly in clean clothes, not bothering with a shower, though he probably needed one. He did duck into the bathroom briefly to brush his teeth. He’d woken with the horrid taste of old bile in his mouth. 

Then, after taking a swift look around the flat to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything, he made his way down onto the street to hail a taxi for Harry’s house.


	4. Chapter 4

He had trouble focusing all that next day at work. Mrs. Loenstien’s bowel troubles, and Mrs. Newel’s strep throat culture and Mr. Patel’s skin abrasions from getting a bit too aggressive with the hedge shears couldn’t successfully take his mind away from the fact that Sherlock was alive and back home in his flat. And on top of that, John couldn’t stop thinking about how Sherlock had been smug and self satisfied and not nearly as contrite as he should have been for all the pain and anguish he’d put John through.

“I don’t know doctor. I swore I oiled them up proper the night before, but they were rustier than I’d imagined and I ended up scraping half the skin off my hand while trying to prune the hedges. My son Anjeep, when he came home he told me I should- I say Dr. Watson, are you even listening to me?”

John shook himself out of his bitter memories long enough to focus on the task at hand. “Yes! Yes Mr. Patel. I certainly am. We’ll get you a tetanus shot and some stitches right away. You’ll be as good as new in two or three weeks. Just, do yourself a favor and pick up a new pair of hedge shears.” 

He sleep walked his way through the rest of the day, eliciting hums of disapproval from Delores his secretary as well as inquiries as to his overall well being from two other patients who witnessed him gazing off into the middle distance, or frowning a bit too sharply over his prescription tablet. 

He gratefully clocked out at five O’clock to head home and immediately got on the wrong train. Well, it would have been the right train to go back to his flat, but it was the wrong train to head back to Harry’s place. He had to change trains one stop later to head back east. Eventually though, he made it back to Harry’s and trudged up the stairs to find his sister, sitting in the kitchen waiting for him with two mugs and a teapot. “God bless you” he said gratefully as he sat down in her wicker kitchen chair with a weary thud and reached eagerly for the cup. He poured them both some tea and leaned back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose and squinting. 

“You look like shit” Harry, always the realist looked at him with crinkling eyes over the rim of her mug. “Rough day? Still thinking about your boyfriend showing up again?”

“Jesus Harry. You don’t pull punches do you? And yes, it’s been a strange and difficult day, thank you very much. And no Sherlock is most decidedly  _ not _ my boyfriend. Get your gay brain out of the gutter.” 

He’d told Harry all about his feelings for Sherlock last night, over the phone, when he’d asked to stay with her for a few weeks. Over the past year, they had gotten into the habit of having long, late night phone conversations, of leaning on one another for support during the trying times involving Harry’s struggles with staying sober and John’s grief over his loss of Sherlock. He knew if anyone would understand his feelings for the maddening detective, it would be is sister. 

“I knew it” was all she’d said. 

“I swear John. It must be genetic. Mom and dad would laugh if they were alive to see both of their kids had gone gay. I’m honestly laughing about it right now”. She lowered her cup to the table and ran her fingers through her wavy, shoulder length blond hair, still grinning at him like a Cheshire cat. 

“I will kill you Harry, and I’ll tell the judge it was self defense. I’m a doctor. I know how to make it look like self defense.”

“Ok! Ok big brother. I’ll back off. Seriously though, this must all be a bit much. He just waltzed back into your life without so much as a text message. You must be reeling.”

“I am. It made it very hard to focus while I was at work today” John admitted

“Can’t get your mind off that dick huh?” Harry’s grin had turned wicked. 

John started to protest, but instead of sharp words, he felt a bark of laughter burst out of him. Soon they were both clutching at their sides and doubled over with insane giggles, like when they’d been little and had stayed up late at night, joking and laughing together under a blanket with a flashlight, making funny faces. He needed the emotional release he realized. He was tired of being sad and angry and confused. Fuck Sherlock. Fuck Scotland Yard. Fuck Mycroft Holmes and all the insanity that came with being the closest person to an utterly insane sociopathic consulting detective. John needed a break. 

Much later that night, after he and Harry had talked about the new woman Harry was courting, and about her job as the editor at a local paper, and her successful stint at AA, and after she’d inquired after Mrs. Hudson and asked how John’s work day had gone, she gave him a stack of sheets and a pillow for the rather large comfy sofa in her living room and instructed him to get to bed. He gave her a warm hug “Thanks again sis for letting me stay. It means a lot to me, to have space.. You know.”

“I completely understand John. You can stay as long as you like” She gave him one last, sleepy, lopsided grin and then shuffled off to her bedroom. 

John made up the sofa and changed into a comfy pair of flannel pyjamas and a t-shirt. He climbed under the covers and lay there, staring up at the darkened ceiling of Harry’s flat for a long time before falling asleep. 

He dreamed of Sherlock. Sherlock standing on a rickety wooden table, with a thick noose around his neck. John was vaguely terrified..the way one is inside a dream. Afraid that Sherlock would trip and fall off the table and hang himself. Sherlock however seemed to think this whole situation was hilarious. He couldn’t stop laughing, which made him sway and rock precariously on the table, which made John reach out ineffectually to try and make him be careful and stand still.

“You can’t do that!” John was yelling “You have to stand still so you don’t hang yourself!”

“Oh John” Sherlock remarked with a broad smile, as if nothing whatsoever was wrong.. As if there weren’t a massive rope noose pulled tight against his long white neck. “Oh John.. You always worry so much. Learn to relax”

And with that, the table canted sideways and Sherlock fell..

John woke up with a start, his shirt soaked with sweat. His breath coming in ragged gasps. When he got his wits about him and reached for his cell phone on the coffee table by the sofa where he lay, the lock screen read “5:21AM”. He tried in vain to get back to sleep, but realized it was a lost cause. His alarm would have gone off at 7am anyway, so he might as well get up now. 

A few hours later and he was at his desk at work, during a brief moment between seeing patients when his phone dinged and the first of the text messages from Sherlock appeared:

John. Come home.

\--SH

John felt his heart race upon first seeing the text with that familiar name come in. After he read it though, he clicked his phone back into sleep mode and went about his day. A few minutes later, the second message dinged through:

_ You’re being ridiculous John. _

\--SH

John frowned and put the phone back in his pocket. He’d be damned if he’d respond to Sherlocks incessant, manipulative texting. 

And true to form, Sherlock did in fact text him all day long. At intervals of exactly 12 minutes. John knew this because he started timing them after the 6th one came in:

_ John, I’ve forgotten how to use the coffee maker. You’ll have to come show me. _

\--SH

_ John. Mrs. Hudson misses you. You should stop in for a visit _

\--SH

_ John. If you don’t come home I’ll be forced to eat all of these toaster pastries in the pantry. _

\--SH

_ John. John? I am getting the distinct feeling you’re not responding to my texts on purpose. Is this true John? _

\--SH

_ I’m not joking anymore John. You’ve had enough time to “get distance” or whatever it was you said you needed. Now come home this instant. _

\--SH

_ John, I am not above sending Mycroft around with a car to come get you. He owes me for what I did for him in Serbia.  _

\--SH

That last one almost made John text back to tell Sherlock that he’d better not send Mycroft over to kidnap him, but he assumed that it was an empty threat considering how Sherlock would usually rather chew off his own foot than ask his brother for help. 

Sherlock was behaving like a spoiled child and it only made John angrier. This was just like all the other times when he’d said or done something inconsiderate and had thrown out a kind word as a way of apology, or when he’d prodded John with jokes or requests for attention until John had grudgingly given in and forgave him for his latest transgression. Before now, he’d found he could never stay mad at Sherlock for long, but this time.. This time was different. What Sherlock had done, though it made logical sense in hindsight had severely damaged John’s trust in him. John hadn’t known Sherlock could be so cold and heartless. It had shaken him to his core to find out that Sherlock had  _ known _ he was suffering and had stayed away anyway. Regardless of the reasons why, it still stung John deeply. 

And so he resolutely ignored all of Sherlock’s text messages. For all he knew, they were just part of another of Sherlock Holmes’ scientific experiments. Take angry Friend (x) and add silly text messages every twelve minutes for 24 hours (y) and divide by the gullible and forgiving nature of said friend (z). He was in no mood to be experimented on, or to be weedled at or manipulated, and so he eventually turned his phone off completely, so the buzzing (or the urge to check it) wouldn’t distract him. He was in the office, and had his business cellular on him for emergencies, so he didn’t need his personal cell to stay on. 

When he got back to Harry’s that night, after they’d had curry take out and had settled in for some telly, he turned his phone back on. Both of them watched in mild awe as the phone buzzed non stop, vibrating it’s way several inches across the coffee table as thirty new text message alerts came in for texts that had piled up in a queue while John’s phone had been turned off. 

“That man is insane” Harry remarked with an impish grin as the phone kept buzzing for a solid two minutes as text after text came in. John wasn’t sure he liked the minor note of grudging respect he recognized in his sister’s voice

“Yes. Yes he is. And quite dedicated when he wants to be” he replied, picking up the phone and scrolling briefly down the long list of notifications. “And that’s why I’m not answering him”. He turned the phone off again and put it back on the coffee table so that Harry and he could continue watching television.

“Suit yourself” his sister said, passing him a bowl of popcorn and curling up against the arm of the sofa. “He probably won’t stop though.”

“I don’t care if he doesn’t stop. He can text me until his fingers fall off. I’m not responding. He can’t bully me into answering him.” John’s mood had soured suddenly. 

Later that night though, as he lay in bed, trying to sleep, he couldn’t help but pick up the phone and read the messages. Most were along the same vein as the first few. Lots of “You really should come home John”s and “Don’t be childish John”s, but then some seemed genuinely heartfelt and even a bit vulnerable. Such as:

_ Your chair is very empty John, and I don’t like it. _

\--SH

Or

_ I told you Mrs. Hudson missed you, but perhaps I wasn’t clear. I miss you as well.  _

\--SH

And

_ Let’s just put all this behind us John. I’d really like to talk to you.  _

\--SH

John couldn’t help but feel a warmth spreading through his chest upon reading these more open and vulnerable messages. But still…none of them contained the words “I’m sorry for hurting you” or “I was wrong to leave you like that”. Sherlock was trash at admitting he was wrong and even worse at apologies. All the text messages had implied tacitly that this separation John’s fault.. and had nothing whatsoever to do with Sherlock’s own actions.  _ John _ was doing something wrong to Sherlock by staying away.  _ Sherlock _ however, as usual,was above reproach. Blameless.

Well, John was sick of it. He decided he wasn’t responding until he saw an apology. An acknowledgement that Sherlock had messed up by putting John through a hellish year of grief and pain. 

John turned his phone off again and tossed and turned for a few hours before falling into a fitful sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are a bit racy in this one. I changed the rating to M.

He dreamed about Sherlock again. This time it wasn’t anxiety causing or scary like the noose dream had been. This time it was… erotic. 

He was wrapped up in Sherlock’s arms, somewhere dark and quiet, an enclosed space with dim lighting.. and the man’s fierce blue eyes were staring deeply into his own. John realized without an ounce of surprise or shame, that they were both naked, and in the way dream logic works, this seemed perfectly normal to him. He could feel Sherlock’s silky smooth body pressed up against his own with nary a stitch of clothing separating them. It felt amazing. It felt thrilling and his skin tingled where it touched Sherlock’s skin. He could feel Sherlock’s hot breath on his face as it gusted from the other man’s nose to brush gently against his mouth. He looked up at Sherlock’s soft, full lips and watched as they moved and words came out.

_ I need you  _

_ But.. but  _ stuttered John inside his dream, distracted by the feel of their bodies pressed together and the electricity of the lust shining in Sherlock’s ice blue eyes.  _ But you hurt me. How can you need me if you left me? _

_ I need you John  _ the Sherlock in his dream simply repeated himself. Then he lowered his head and pressed his lips against John’s.

John woke up with a gasp. He was breathing heavily and, to his dismay, realized that he was painfully erect.  _ Great. This is just great.  _ First a nightmare, then an erotic fantasy. Was Sherlock drugging Harry’s water supply? His phone’s lock screen said 3:48AM, but he knew better than to try and go back to sleep right away. The dream was taunting him, the memory of Sherlock’s long, lean, naked body against his own making his sleepy head spin. He’d dreamed of Sherlock holding him and kissing him before, when he’d thought the man was actually dead and gone, but it had always been a sweet thing. A melancholy thing. Definitely a situation where they were both fully dressed. It had never gone to a sexual place. John supposed he’d felt too sad and confused to let his subconscious mind go there back then. 

Well his subconscious mind had apparently caught up with events and was now supplying him with erotic fantasies of being naked and wrapped up in Sherlock’s arms. John lay still and breathed deeply for a few minutes, trying to will his erection to go away and to get himself to a place where he could go back to sleep. It was no use. After 10 minutes of attempting in vain to banish thoughts of Sherlock’s piercing blue eyes and silky soft skin, John gave up and reached for a box of tissues on the coffee table and put a hand down his pants. He swiftly stroked himself to a very quiet but very intense orgasm, gasping out softly into the darkness of the pre dawn living room. 

Afterwards, he gave up the pretense of trying to sleep and got up to make some coffee. He felt surprisingly good. After a moment’s thought, he realized that it was probably the endorphins from the orgasm. He hadn’t had one in a very long time. He’d been too sad and distracted to give much mind to his erotic needs over the past several months. He had a mad urge to text Sherlock back to say

_ “I’m not coming home, but thanks to you, I  _ did  _ wank one out, so cheers!” _

The thought made him grin. It also reminded him that he’d turned his phone back on. He went to retrieve it, coffee in hand and found another several text messages had come in from Sherlock:

_ John, Lestrade called last night. He has another case. I’ll meet you at the station at 7 _

_ \--SH _

Then, unbelievably

_ You can call out sick. So don’t worry about work _

_ \--SH _

John ignored the messages and went to take a shower. 

At 7, on the nose, another message came in:

_ You’re not here _

_ \--SH _

Then

_ I believe I was quite specific about the time _

_ \--SH _

Then

_ John, I can’t work without you _

_ \--SH _

John had to smile a little at this new volley of messages. Even if Sherlock were not apologizing, he was clearly squirming a bit. It was not John’s intention to make the other man anxious. He only wanted to be allowed to acclimate to the new reality that was Sherlock’s reappearance and to process the anger and betrayal he felt. But the fact that Sherlock so plainly needed him was still nice to see. 

Regardless, he got ready for work and headed down to the tube station. He stepped onto the train and took a seat, pulling out his phone to see three more texts appear from Sherlock. He sighed. This would probably continue non stop until John returned to the flat and agreed to let everything go back to the way it had been pre Sherlock-death. He didn’t care. He clicked his phone off without reading the messages and put it in the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded newspaper to pass the time. The train pulled into the next station and a group of commuters shuffled on. Someone sat down next to John, which was obnoxious as there were plenty of empty seats open in this particular carriage. Some people had no respect for personal space anymore. He glanced sideways, irritably out of the corner of his eye and saw a familiar pale face, peaking out above the dark collar of a familiar trench coat. 

“Sherlock!” he hissed “Jesus Christ!” He kept his voice hushed so as not to draw too much attention to the presumed dead, famous consulting detective who now sat next to him, his face an unreadable mask. 

Sherlock turned to regard him with serious blue eyes that frustratingly made John’s breath catch in his chest. “John, I asked you to meet me at the station and you weren’t there”

“Yes! I wasn’t there Sherlock. Because I had absolutely no intention of meeting you!” John pushed the words out angrily through clenched teeth, staring back fiercely into Sherlock’s impassive, aloof face. 

“But John”, the detective’s voice was growing a bit petulant. “I can’t work without you. You know that”

“You’re going to have to Sherlock. I told you, things can’t just go back to the way they were.”

“Yes.  _ They can  _ John. All you have to do is come with me to the station and help me with this case. It’s a good one. It involves a dead heiress”

John groaned in frustration “Only  _ you  _ would refer to a dead person as a positive thing, you psycho”

“It’s not the heiress being dead that’s the good part John. For god’s sake, I’m not a monster”

“Matter of opinion” John shot back sullenly

“It’s the fact that I can’t solve it in under five seconds that I find challenging." Sherlock said, ignoring John's barb "And  _ that’s  _ what makes it ‘good’. To be honest, the heiress only makes it high profile, which is good for our business”

“We don’t  _ have  _ a business anymore Sherlock. I am not your assistant anymore. You made sure of that when you  _ faked your own death  _ and left me alone for a year to grieve. Now go.  _ Away _ ”. John snapped the paper back into place between himself and Sherlock, refusing to look at the man. Two minutes later, when he dared to fold down a corner to see if Sherlock was still there, he found the seat beside him empty.


	6. Chapter 6

At work that day, John couldn’t help but wonder how Sherlock’s new case was going. It did seem strange to think about the detective working alone. John knew Sherlock had worked alone before John came along, but since he’d pretty quickly recruited John in the position of his assistant, mere hours after they’d met, all John had ever known during their relationship was being one half of a duo with Sherlock. He wondered if Sherlock would just as easily be able to solve the case without John by his side. Most likely yes, he would be. John had always seriously doubted the validity of his input in the cases they worked together. 

Sherlock never doubted it though. For all the random insults and jibes the infuriating detective tossed in John’s direction, he also made sure to compliment John on flashes of insight and on his medical acumen. Despite Sherlock’s insane genius, he was a Jack of all trades. He hadn’t been to medical school like John had. Hadn’t performed surgeries or sat bedside and watched men and women die slowly, hadn’t stitched people back together the way John had. He was short on real life experiences, and short on recognizing the subtleties of human emotion. 

As he thought about it, John realized that he did in fact have a lot to offer Sherlock by way of being his assistant. And it wasn’t just because of John’s medical knowledge or emotional intelligence. He was the warm, friendly, rational person who tempered Sherlock’s cold, dismissive attitude towards others. Without John there to smile, to apologize, to recognize the humanity of their clients, Sherlock would likely run roughshod over any number of people. John shuddered at the thought of the blunt, aggressive man speaking to the loved ones of a murder victim. 

_ God damn it _ The thought made John want to leave work immediately and rush down to the station to make sure Sherlock hadn’t caused anyone to burst into tears. Was this all part of the detective’s plans to get John back to the flat? Back to working beside him? Unlikely. Sherlock knew how obnoxious and unfeeling he could come across, but he wasn’t the best when it came to self awareness. 

John’s fingers clenched around the pen he was using to write out a prescription and he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment to banish the anxious need he felt to rush to Sherlock’s side. Out of all the people in the world he could have fallen head over heels in love with, all the beautiful women he’d encountered in his life.. Out of all the men he could possibly have developed bisexual urges towards, why oh why did it have to be Sherlock? 

There were the obvious reasons. The man’s beauty for one, which leapt to mind. Sherlock looked like a marble statue come to life. His high cheekbones and sapphire eyes and soft full mouth were striking, as were his long, lean, well muscled arms and strong legs and broad shoulders. His deep rumbling, baritone voice made John’s knees weak and his mouth go dry on a regular basis. So yes, Sherlock was beautiful. In a way that sort of transcended gender. There was a femininity and a masculinity mixed up in the detective’s striking looks that John found highly intriguing and appealing.

But John had known many beautiful men in his life who hadn’t made his insides turn to sparks and butterfly wings like this. The attraction was deeper than that. He and Sherlock had a unique connection he’d never felt before. Sherlock was fascinating and thrilling and had brought a depth of meaning to John’s life that had been sorely missing before the detective had shown up. He was insanely intelligent and wryly funny and surprisingly caring (in the unpredictable moments when he chose to be so), and over the brief time in which they’d gotten to know each other and had formed their close knit friendship, Sherlock had let John see depths of humanity and vulnerability that John doubted he’d shown to anyone else in his life. 

John only bemoaned the fact that he couldn’t have simply stayed as Sherlock’s friend. That his feelings couldn’t have just stopped at companionship. That would have been so much easier. It would have allowed him peace and closure after a normal amount of grieving, rather than the gut wrenching anguish of feeling as if he’d lost the love of his life. 

_ The love of my life? When the hell did I start thinking this way? _

The thought snapped John out of his reverie and he continued scribbling down the prescription information and mentally banished thoughts of Sherlock’s beauty and of their connection so that he could prepare to see his next patient. Sherlock would simply have to work on this case alone. 

____________________________________

Or so he thought. Until he returned back to Harry’s flat and found her sitting at the dining room table with Sherlock over tea. 

“Harry!” he exclaimed in shocked frustration. “What the hell are you doing letting him in here?”

“Look John. Just because you and your boyfriend are having a fight doesn’t mean I have to be a bad hostess.”

John felt his face flush with what was probably an epic blush and his eyes snapped to Sherlock’s face. Luckily, the detective hadn’t seemed to notice or care about the word “boyfriend” and was looking at him over the rim of a mug of tea, his eyes glimmering mischievously. “Relax John” he rumbled. “I forced her to make me tea at knife point. She’s ever the devoted sister”

“He didn’t really” Harry smirked “But I’m definitely telling my friends that he did, you know… for effect”

“Sherlock. Get out ” John was incensed. He could now add his own sister to the list of people who couldn’t be trusted to support him or have his back in times of need.

“It’s Harriet’s house John” Sherlock remarked in an infuriatingly casual tone of voice. “Shall I leave Miss Watson?” He crooked a delicate eyebrow in Harry’s direction.

“No.. I think it’s fine if you stay Sherlock. Besides. You and my brother have some talking to do”

“We do NOT have any talking to do!” John slammed his briefcase down, and whirling on his heel, he strode to the door and left. 

John heard a series of rapid thumps, and Sherlock caught up to him at the bottom of the stairs. “John, where are you going?”

“Down to the pub to get extremely drunk. You’re not invited”

“Oh, well then, that’s where I’m going too, what a coincidence”

John spun around to face Sherlock, grabbing him by the shoulders and shook him gently “Leave. Me. Alone Sherlock. I don’t want to talk to you right now!” 

They were standing on the sidewalk at this point, and John was aware that they were causing a minor scene. A few people had stopped to give them the eye. Probably assuming, (half correctly) that they were having a lover’s quarrel. 

“Come now John. You know how persistent I can be. I need you on this case. Today was miserable. I made two people cry and one of them might have been Lestrade. I’m no good without you.”

“Is that an apology Sherlock? Because it doesn’t sound like one. It sounds like you, trying to manipulate me into fulfilling your needs without considering my own.” John continued stiffly walking away from Sherlock, but the detective only followed him. He stayed a step or two behind John though, probably accurately sensing that the shorter man would snap if he pushed too hard. 

John swiftly walked the block and a half to the closest pub and sat down at the far end of the bar. He waved the bartender over and ordered a pint and a shot of whiskey. Sherlock slid onto the stool next to him, spinning to face him, rather than the bar in front of them. The detective’s proximity was distracting. John knocked back the shot and chased it with a long swig of ale. 

“Oi!” this from the bartender “Aren’t you that famous detective?”

“I get that a lot, but no” Sherlock responded without looking at the man. He kept his eyes fixed on John. John could feel the detectives gaze boring into the side of his head. He took another long sip of ale, hoping the alcohol would calm the mix of nerves and anger he felt coursing through him. 

After the bartender had wandered away to help another customer, John felt Sherlock’s hand come to rest gently on his arm. He flinched, then inwardly scolded himself for reacting so obviously to the other man’s touch. “John please” Sherlock’s voice was soft and gentle and John hated the way his insides clenched at the sound of it. 

“I need you”. The same words Sherlock had spoken to him in the erotic dream from this morning. John knocked back the last of his pint and motioned to the bartender to bring him another. 

“I don’t care if you need me Sherlock” he spat out, trying valiantly to stop the warmth that was spreading from his face to his neck and down his chest at the feel of Sherlock’s hand on his arm and the other man’s closeness where he sat, a half a foot away on the stool next to him. Sherlock sat with his knees open to either side of John. His one hand still on John’s arm, the other resting on his long, dark clad thigh. John gratefully accepted a second pint from the bartender and gulped half of it down in one long series of swallows.

“You shouldn’t drink so fast John. It’s not good for you”

“Do you know what else isn’t good for me Sherlock? Thinking my best friend is dead for a full year, watching my best friend throw himself from the roof of a tall building and dash himself against the ground isn’t good for me either” John hissed the words into Sherlock’s surprised face before turning back to hunch over his pint again. 

“John. It’s dawned on me that I should apologize for that”

“OH has it?? What tipped you off!?” The alcohol was not having the desired effect. It was making him more emotional, not less. 

“Well, you’ve been rather clear about expecting an apology from me, so I suppose it’s high time I gave you what you wanted” John turned to look at Sherlock with open mouthed incredulity as the detective drew himself up straight on the stool and affected a serious air. “John. I’m sorry” he said in his most officious voice. It was devoid of any emotion whatsoever.

“Sorry for what?” John spat out through clenched teeth. This ought to be good.

“I’m sorry that my rather genius plan to take down Moriarty’s network of spies and assassins and to keep you and Mrs. Hudson and Molly safe had the unfortunate side effect of making you believe I was dead for a year. I know it probably wasn’t easy, so I apologize.”

John almost couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Dear  _ God  _ Sherlock. You really are beyond belief you know that? Is that really your idea of a sincere apology??” He slapped a handful of bills down on the bar and clambered off the stool to head out the door. Sherlock followed. Of course.

Once they were back out on the street, John realized he was a bit tipsier than he’d planned on being. The booze had gone to his head rather quickly. He swayed for a moment and put his hand out to support himself against the outer wall of the pub. Sherlock was there immediately, hand gripping John’s elbow. John wrenched himself out of Sherlock’s grasp and continued to walk, a bit unsteadily back towards Harry’s flat. 

“Look John. Please just wait a minute. Please John.” When John refused to slow down or stop walking, Sherlock apparently decided to take matters into his own hands. Literally. He grabbed John by the arm and pulled them down a nearby side street. Once he’d dragged John a few yards down the alley, away from the main street, he pushed the shorter man roughly up against the side of a building and fixed him with an intense stare. John gasped in surprise.

Sherlock leaned in so that their faces were mere inches apart and spoke, low and intent in a horse whisper.

“John. I am sorry . I am really and truly sorry. It was easy for me because I was busy working. Infiltrating Moriarty’s network took a lot of focus and energy and so I didn’t feel our separation the same way you did. I was blind to how it would affect you. I am very very sorry.” His eyes flashed and his lips were pressed into a thin determined line. John’s eyes widened in shock and his mouth fell open slightly at the sudden change of events. 

“Sherlock.. I”

“Shut up. I’m not finished yet” Sherlock snapped. John dutifully shut his mouth and waited. 

“I didn’t know how difficult living without you would be John. It’s been…” the detective’s eyes gleamed briefly with what could be interpreted as sorrow… fear? John wasn’t sure. “It’s been very difficult for me. I miss you John. Quite a bit. I didn’t know how much until I couldn’t rely on you to be there every time I walked into the flat. And yes… I realize now how hypocritical it is to make you live without me for a year and then complain bitterly the minute you return the favor. I am  _ aware _ of that John”

John was suddenly very, very conscious of how close Sherlock was. The taller man had his hands clenched in John’s jacket lapels and his face was inches away. Without thinking about it, his eyes wandered down to Sherlock’s soft lips. He noticed that the detective was breathing hard and was clearly emotionally worked up. 

“I said I needed you, to work the case with me, and I meant it, but it’s about more than that John. I need you as my friend. My companion. Life in the flat without you is dull and boring. Mrs. Hudson has started growing exasperated with my moping. She says if you don’t come back she’ll toss me out on the street. I need you to come home and I’m very very sorry that I hurt you”

His eyes were fierce and intently focused on John’s face. His fists were still tightly clenched in John’s lapels. His gaze and his proximity were doing things to John that made him squirm slightly. Being the focus of all of Sherlock’s attention was like a drug. And he felt high on it. And he couldn’t show any of that to Sherlock. He gently pushed the taller man away and straightened up, smoothing down the lapels of his shirt. “Fine. Fine. Thank you for the apology Sherlock. I appreciate it. I’ll go to Harry’s to pick up my stuff and I’ll be back at the flat in an hour or so”

Sherlock’s face bloomed briefly with a flash of satisfaction and joy, and John hated himself a little for folding so quickly, but what was he to do? Sherlock had bent over backwards to make it clear that he felt remorse for what he’d done. And did John really want to deal with 47 more text messages? And of course, he secretly wanted to spend more time around Sherlock. This stalemate, even though it had only lasted a little under two days, had been exhausting for his nerves. He had been worn down. He knew when to accept defeat. 

And so it was, after stopping by Harry’s to pick up his things, under an onslaught of jokes from his sister about how he obviously just couldn’t stay away from his “sweetheart honeybuns”, he finally climbed the stairs back up to their flat at 221B Baker street. He found Sherlock in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, a self satisfied smile plastered on his face as John walked in. “I’m glad you finally came to your senses John. Now, lets talk about this case”.


	7. Chapter 7

John ignored the “come to your senses” comment and stiffly went to make himself a cup of tea. “So, talk” he said curtly as he rifled through the cabinets for the tin of loose Earl Grey he was looking for. 

Sherlock laid out the details of the case in his usual clipped yet dramatic manner. An heiress to a shipping magnate’s fortune. A jealous lover, a loveless marriage. She’d been found dead, strangled by ligature inside the hull of one of her grandfather’s ships, covered in a tarp. Underneath the tarp, the body had been covered in rose petals. No witnesses. The father, the grandfather, the husband and the lover all had airtight albis, so did the heiress’ beloved younger sister. The heiress, Vanessa Grafton, was probably murdered sometime between one am and three am, based on the coroner’s report “Whom I didn’t trust.” Sherlock added “I’d really much rather you’d been there to inspect the body John. But no. You were off pouting.”

John rolled his eyes but refrained from commenting as Sherlock continued talking about the case. He gave his input here and there. Had Sherlock or the police talked to the other family members? What type of rose petals were they on the body? Did the woman have any other enemies aside from possibly family, husband and lover? 

They talked about the case until the wee hours of the morning, eventually ending up across from each other in their respective armchairs in the sitting room, just like old times. John couldn’t help but feel a quiet joy well up inside his chest as he watched Sherlock gesticulating with his long, expressive fingers as he spoke, hands dancing like graceful birds through the air whilst he rattled off details and ideas surrounding the case. He forgot to be angry at Sherlock and instead delighted in all the minute changes in the other man’s expressive face, watching the lamplight play over Sherlock’s lovely features as the detective spoke of this or that theory. Eventually, the conversation strayed to Sherlock’s experiences in the year he’d been gone. 

John felt a small stab of pain and resentment when Sherlock first broached the subject, but suppressed it swiftly in favor of hearing about his friend’s adventures. And what adventures they were! Sherlock had spent months infiltrating Moriarty’s network. He’d grown his hair out long and had grown a beard and had brushed up on his Hungarian and his Serbian. He’d spent a solid month and a half living as a homeless man for one false identity, another month pretending to be a drug dealer (he also swiftly reassured John that he hadn’t relapsed back to his old habits during that time when he saw John’s concerned look). It had been touch and go for a while there when his cover had almost been compromised while he was inside a Serbian prison compound, but Mycroft had come to his aid at the last minute with bribes and false papers. 

It really drove home to John just how far Sherlock had had to go to take down Moriarty’s network and also how he’d done all that work, taken on all that risk so that Sherlock and his small group of friends (and honestly a large portion of London’s general population) could rest easily without worrying about the insane mastermind’s posthumous schemes and retaliations. For they both knew that just because Moriarty had met his physical, corporeal end on the rooftop of St. Bartholomew’s by way of a bullet to the brain, that he was still capable of causing havoc by way of plans he may have set up for just such an occasion as his sudden death. 

John finally started to grasp the vast scope of the sacrifices Sherlock had made to keep those he cared about safe. And with that realization, he felt the peaceful rush of real and true forgiveness for Sherlock washing away a great deal of his resentment and anger. He felt himself smiling like a fool as he listened to the detective go on about his undercover operations. 

Sherlock noticed (of course) and his narrative faltered to a halt as he stared at John in confusion. “John” he grumbled “I was unaware that you found me contracting a near fatal disease from lying on the floor of a filthy Serbian prison cell so pleasing. You’re grinning like a child on Christmas morning”

John couldn’t help but laugh out loud “I’m sorry, Sherlock” he said through a happy chuckle. “I’m not smiling at your pain. I promise. I’m just glad that you’re back”

“Well, you have a funny way of showing it” Sherlock sniffed, looking put out, but he continued with his story nonetheless. He spoke until John interrupted him again, this time with a huge yawn. 

“You should go to bed John. What with having strange dreams and waking up in the middle of the night you haven’t been sleeping enough. You need your rest for tomorrow” 

John froze mid yawn. How did Sherlock know about his strange dreams?

Sherlock must have read his thoughts. “You’ve got dark circles under your eyes. The kind you always get when you suffer from nightmares. Don’t look so surprised. I do actually listen to you when you talk about yourself” Sherlock’s tone was light and teasing. “Your well being is actually very important to me John” His voice was warm and soft, and he was looking at John with focused gentleness and John suddenly had trouble breathing. 

The moment stretched out for a few uncomfortable seconds before John willed himself to actually start breathing again and got up with a sigh “You’re right Sherlock. I do need sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He was surprised when Sherlock rose from his chair as well and stepped forward, putting his arms around John’s neck to wrap him in a fierce embrace. John squeaked in surprise at the sudden contact, his hands coming up to rest lightly on Sherlock’s hips, unsure of how to react. But a split second later, he wrapped his arms around the tall man’s narrow waist and hugged him back. Dear god . It felt so good to have Sherlock’s arms around him. He was enveloped by the intoxicating smell of the other man’s posh cologne and the warmth of his body. 

After a few seconds, thankfully before John’s body could react in further and possibly embarrassing ways to Sherlock’s closeness, the taller man disengaged and stepped back, holding John at arm’s length and looking directly into his eyes. “I really am sorry John” he said in a soft, gentle voice. “I’m sorry, and I missed you very much while I was gone”

“That’s..that’s alright Sherlock. Thank you. I...I… think we’re all caught up now” John mumbled awkwardly, suddenly unable to meet the detective’s piercing blue gaze. He grasped Sherlock’s hands by the wrists and gently removed them from his shoulders before turning and unsteadily walking down the hall to his bedroom. Once inside, he pressed his back up against the bedroom door and put a hand over his face, letting out a long breath. 

Yes, he was glad that he and Sherlock had made amends. Very glad. It took a weight off his shoulders that he’d felt pressing down on him since shortly after he’d come to on his sitting room floor with the infuriating detective kneeling over him. He felt finally free of the resentment and anger and confusion that had been bubbling up inside of him since that moment. Upon reflection, he realized that the turnover from anger to forgiveness had been startlingly swift, all things considered. He’d been prepared to spend months away from Sherlock in order to lick his wounds and get back on his proverbial feet. But the detective had had other ideas. In retrospect, Sherlock’s incessant pestering and boundary violations had probably worked out for the best in the end. The man had a way of knocking down any and all barriers between him and what he wanted, and what he’d wanted was John’s forgiveness. And of course he’d gotten it. 

John hadn’t truly wanted to spend months away from Sherlock. It was just that the pain he’d felt clenching inside of his chest and stomach at the thought of Sherlock deceiving him and betraying him that way had made him feel as if one hundred years of separation would not have been enough. In the end though, Sherlock’s vulnerable and fervent apology, and the knowledge of the great lengths the man had taken to dismantle Moriarty’s network had gone a long way in earning John’s forgiveness. 

So yes… things were as back to normal as they could be. Except… except that Sherlock’s perceived death had woken up these feelings inside John that now had nowhere to go. Feelings he was just coming to terms with. Feelings he was relatively certain would not be returned by the tall, slender, maddenly attractive man in the bedroom down the hall from him. 

Sherlock had never once during their friendship remarked on the attractiveness of a single person. He’d never once mentioned an intimate sexual or romantic connection from his past. Mrs. Hudson had confirmed that in all the time she’d known Sherlock, the man had never had a girlfriend… or a boyfriend, and John still remembered the awkward conversation he and Sherlock had shared at that restaurant, while staking out the taxi cab killer, mere hours after they’d met. How he’d asked gently about Sherlock’s romantic status and how the other man had grown stiff and uncomfortable, had blindly assumed John had been hitting on him and had awkwardly turned John down.

Maybe he saw something back then that I couldn’t see?

He’d never caught Sherlock masturbating, or looking at porn, which he regrettably could not say for Sherlock in regards to catching John (the detective had walked in on him once when he’d been wanking in the shower). 

John’s face still burned at the memory of Sherlock’s reaction to busting through the bathroom door and seeing John, cock in hand, and a shocked look on his face through the transparent shower curtain. “ _ Don’t be a prude John. I simply needed your opinion immediately. The fact that you were in the shower, touching yourself at the time is immaterial. Get over it”.  _ After a very stern conversation about boundaries and privacy, Sherlock never again walked in on John in the bathroom, which was a mercy.

Sherlock was apparently asexual. And even if he were interested in sex, there was no guarantee that it would be men he’d be attracted to. And even if the consulting detective were interested in sex and men, there was no guarantee that he’d be interested in  _ John _ .

All of this added up a rather hellish unrequited love situation that John wasn’t looking forward to dealing with. It would just take time. Time to settle back into their friendship. Time to start dating again and hopefully find a nice girl that would take his mind off of Sherlock. Maybe a nice boy? John shook his head at the thought of dating men. He infuriatingly didn’t find any other men attractive at all, let alone feeling anything close to the burning, searing hot passion he felt for Sherlock. The thought of having sex with a man who wasn’t Sherlock left him cold and uninspired, yet the mere sound of Sherlock’s deep baritone made John’s insides turn to molten lava and made his body react in ways that were best kept to late night imaginings in the privacy of his own bedroom. 

Speaking of the privacy of his own bedroom, it was nice to be home. He swiftly undressed and got into his pyjamas and into bed, resolutely pushing thoughts of Sherlock and his sexual and romantic predicament out of his mind. It took him a surprisingly short time to fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

The next morning, they shared a taxi down to Scotland Yard and soon found themselves in Lestrade’s office. 

“Well well! It’s good to see you two back together!” The Detective Inspector’s face split into a broad grin as he watched Sherlock and John enter his office. “Sherlock, I thought John would have strangled you by now. I’m glad to see you’ve worked it all out.”

“Yeah.. well.. It took some doing” John mumbled as they both sat in the office chairs opposite Lestrade’s desk. 

They took a moment to tell Lestrade about Sherlock’s thoughts on the case, that the rose petals were a ruse, meant to make the murder look like some sort of deep serial killer situation. That the victim’s siblings had all been beneath her in line to inherit the bulk of the family fortune. John included the insights he’d gained from hearing about the case. Something wasn’t right about the angle of the ligature marks around the victim’s neck. 

They headed to the crime scene in Greg’s police car and spent some time wandering around the deck of the fishing vessel where the body had been found. Sherlock kept his eyes trained on the ground and stopped suddenly to crouch down to look at something in the wood grain of the planks that covered the deck. He fished a pair of tweezers and a small glass beaker out of his coat pocket and pried a piece of discolored wood up from one of the planks and deposited it in the beeker. 

“Look here” he gestured for John to join him where he crouched on the deck. “This discolored wood is due to the sharp heel of a shoe. Perhaps a high heeled shoe based on how deep the indent and the dark the mark.” John nodded with interest. 

“A woman perpetrator? Was Mrs Grafton wearing heels when they found her?”

“No. She was strangely barefoot. I think this indicates that she was killed elsewhere and moved here, as most people don’t hang about in the middle of the night in shipyards in their high heels.”

They wandered below deck, Sherlock’s eyes daring here and there, taking in minute details of the ship’s structure and the placement of machinery. He swiftly perused the crime scene, putting on latex gloves so that he could gently run his hands over the wood planking where the body had been found. 

Next they were off to the morgue to talk to Molly. The soft spoken shy young woman wouldn’t meet John’s eyes when they entered her lab. He supposed she was feeling a bit of guilt over being in on the whole fake death scenario, but he honestly held her no ill will. After discussing the case and having Molly give them a brief and disturbing but thorough tour of the dead woman’s body, pointing out the marks on her neck and bruising on her back from lying in the hull of the ship for several hours while her blood pooled, John pulled Molly aside. 

“Hey” he said in a soft, gentle voice. “I want you to know I’m not upset with you for helping Sherlock. He needed the help, and he probably couldn’t have done whatever he did without you.”

Molly let out a relieved sigh and finally let her eyes meet his. “Thanks John” she said with a lopsided grin “You know me. I can’t tell him no.. and I knew it was important”. John nodded. He knew Molly was just as love struck as he, and that meant they shared something profound. Maybe he could use her as a confidant? That would take some careful consideration before he went in that direction. For now, he was just glad that they were on good terms. He gave her arm a gentle squeeze and grinned back at her. “The things we do for that man eh?”

She rolled her eyes and the two of them went together to rejoin Sherlock where he was busy interrogating Greg Lestrade as to the treatment of the body immediately after it was discovered. 

It had been a long day and John was glad when they headed back to the flat together. They’d stopped at a market on the way home so that he could finally make that stir fry he’d been aiming to make the night Sherlock had reappeared. Sherlock wandered behind him down the aisles of the market, uncharacteristically docile and quiet while John picked out peppers and broccoli and water chestnuts, garlic and ginger. 

Once they’d gotten the groceries upstairs, Sherlock had even offered to help John chop vegetables, and the two of them had settled into a cozy routine of washing and chopping up the broccoli and peppers into medium sized chunks for the stir fry. John couldn’t help but glance sideways at Sherlock every few minutes, where the man stood, a couple of feet away, expertly wielding a kitchen knife, quickly turning a large head of broccoli into small pieces with almost disturbing precision. 

During one such glance, Sherlock turned his head and caught John looking and their eyes locked. John swiftly pulled his eyes away, back down to the red and yellow peppers he was cutting up. “This is nice Sherlock” he said in order to break the awkward silence. “Being here, with you, in the kitchen, like old times” He struggled to keep his voice casual, but was dismayed to hear it shake slightly.

“John.” Sherlock had put down the knife and had turned to face him, leaning with one hand on the countertop and one hand on his narrow hip. “I think it’s high time we talked about your feelings for me don’t you? It’s becoming a bit distracting”

The knife John had been wielding clattered to the floor and his head snapped up to look at Sherlock, who returned his look with calm aloofness. “Wha-what..” he stammered, heart pounding and mouth suddenly very dry. “What do you mean m-my feelings?” 

“Don’t be dense John. You’re in love with me, and it’s becoming sort of obvious.”

John felt his face burn with embarrassment as he backed away from Sherlock, his breath coming quickly, his heart racing. “Sherlock! How...I… I’m not sure you…” 

“It’s nothing to be upset about John.” Sherlock’s voice was impossibly calm and measured. How can he be so goddamn calm?? “Your face was all red a moment ago, but now it’s very pale. Are you certain you’re alright?”

“I… I… Of course I’m not alright Sherlock!” John realized that his hands were shaking and quickly clasped them together to hide his tremors. “Where do you get the impression that I… That I’m…”

“In love with me?” Sherlock finished. “Well, there’s the way your pulse quickens when I stand or sit near to you. And how your eyes dilate when my face is close to your face. You were also quite distraught for an inordinate amount of time when you thought I was dead. Not typically the way a man reacts to the loss of a platonic chum” 

“I.. I..” John stammered, unable to finish a coherent sentence. 

Sherlock took this opportunity to take a step closer to him. “It’s quite alright John. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

John took another step back and felt himself come up against the refrigerator. Sherlock stepped even closer, barely a foot away now. “It’s pointless to deny it John. The science is there. I can practically see the oxytocin coursing through your veins when I look at you.”

“Sh-Sherlock. You can’t possibly know that about me. My feelings are my own, and I’ve never said a word about being… about feeling…”

“About being in love with me? It’s alright John. You can say it out loud.”

“I’m not in love with you” John said, his voice sounding hollow in his ears. “I’m not”. 

“John, I am literally the world’s best detective and your closest friend. Do you really think you’re fooling me with denials at this point?”

He was standing very close now, looking down into John’s eyes with icy intensity. His voice had grown soft and quiet and achingly deep. 

John couldn’t take it. He ducked around Sherlock and walked swiftly into the sitting room and stood there, hands over his burning face, taking deep breaths in and out.. Trying to calm his nerves. Sherlock came after him but kept his distance, rightfully guessing that John wasn’t in a particularly a stable mood. 

“John. It’s alright. If it makes you feel any better, I’m relatively sure I feel the same way.”

“You what?!” John whirled around to face Sherlock who was standing in the doorway to the sitting room, his arms crossed over his chest, with a quizzical look on his pale face. 

“I’ve been taking some notes and doing some research on the subject of romantic love, and based on the data I’ve gathered, I’m fairly certain that I’m in love with you too.”

“Research?” John’s head was spinning and his chest was tight. “Data?”.

“Yes John”. Sherlock huffed dramatically in frustration and ran a long fingered hand through his short dark hair. “I took measurements of my biological reactions to your proximity and the amount of time I spend on a daily basis thinking about you, and the quality of those thoughts. I discovered that I exhibited biological indicators of arousal virtually every time I was near you. Increased heart rate. Increased skin temperature. Increased blood flow to my…”

“Sherlock! I think perhaps we should talk about this another time.”

“Why? I was rather hoping we could get it out in the open as soon as possible so that we could act on it” 

“ Act on it ...” John breathed, feeling light headed. Sherlock sounded as if he were discussing the weather, or a new television show that he wanted to watch. He was so maddeningly clinical and it was really quite unsettling to John all things considered. 

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door below. John felt a rush of relief over a possible interruption to this highly embarrassing and confusing situation. 

“Boys!!” Mrs. Hudson’s voice echoed up from downstairs. “Detective Lestrade is here to see you!” then “Go on up” she said in a barely audible voice. Shortly afterwards, they heard the thump of Greg Lestrade’s shoes on the stairs up to their flat. John quickly took a few steps away from the door so that Sherlock could let Lestrade in, but kept his distance from Sherlock. The detective inspector stepped into the sitting room and immediately glanced at the two of them. “Have I interrupted something?” he asked.

“Yes, but it’s fine” Sherlock snapped out. “What do you want Greg?”

“It’s nice to see you too Sherlock. We have the victim, Vanessa Grafton’s sister down at the station. She says she thinks she knows who killed Vanessa. We wanted you to come down and talk to her.” He nodded at John “And bring your PR representative with you. We don’t want you making the poor girl break down in tears”. 

John, very glad to have something to do to disrupt the horrifyingly awkward scene that Greg Lestrade had just interrupted, hastened to grab his coat and Sherlock did the same. Soon they were downstairs, in the back of Lestrade’s police car, headed to the station. Sherlock sat, looking out the window and John followed his lead by resolutely keeping his eyes off of the other man. He focused on getting his breathing and his heart rate back to normal. It wasn’t an easy task.


	9. Chapter 9

The victim’s sister, Chloe Grafton was a small slip of a girl. Probably in her early thirties, with thin, mouse brown hair and a sweet face that would have been called pretty in the late 18th century probably, but which now looked a bit wan and pinched. She had clearly been crying, with a redness around her eyes and a ruddiness to her cheeks that betrayed grief. She was there with her boyfriend, a tall, brooding man probably around John’s age with salt and pepper hair and a pair of expensive, horn rimmed spectacles. 

“My sister was my best friend in the world, We did everything together. I still can’t quite believe she’s gone” Chloe said in a soft, lost sounding voice in the interview room where she and the boyfriend (Trevor apparently) sat opposite John, Sherlock and Detective Inspector Lestrade. John couldn’t help but soften with sympathy at her sweet tear stained face. He himself had a sister who had become nearer and dearer to him in the past year and it tugged at his heart a bit to see Chloe’s pain.

Sherlock was surprisingly also very gentle with her. “I can see that in how clearly distraught you are Miss Grafton. So, what is it that you’ve come here to tell us?” His voice wasn’t... soft per say, but it was gentle and lacked the usual rude intensity Sherlock normally employed when speaking to...well anyone. 

“I came because I have a good idea who might have killed my sister” said Chloe Grafton with a brave tilt to her chin. The boyfriend reached out and grasped her hand in a supportive manner. 

“And who might that be?” Sherlock’s voice was suddenly intent. 

“It was my older brother, Harold Grafton” Chloe announced, voice shaking with emotion, pale blue eyes filling with tears. “He always hated her, and he has this weird thing with roses and he was directly in line to receive her wealth if she were to pass away. I even heard him talk about wishing she would ‘just die’ at the family Christmas dinner last year when he thought I couldn’t hear him”.

“I see” said Sherlock, casting a mischievous, sideways look at John. It was one John recognized from working multiple cases with Sherlock and it made him lean back in his chair in confusion. “What do you mean by ‘weird thing with roses’ Miss Grafton?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, I don’t want to go into too much detail..” She started

“No of course not” Sherlock interrupted “One wouldn’t want to be too detailed when accusing one’s brother of murder. Perish the thought”

At this sudden change in attitude, John shot Sherlock a stern glance which Sherlock ignored completely, keeping his eyes trained on the flustered and weepy young woman instead. 

“Well... “ she stammered, clearly uncomfortable. “He had a sort of.. You know.. Sexual kink about rose petals. Ask his wife. She’s the one who told me about it. He put them all over the bed for their tenth wedding anniversary, but later that night, she came out of the loo and found him, on the bed with them..you know.. Rolling around in them and… getting excited. Yuck. I really don’t want to go into any more detail about my brother’s strange kinks if you don’t mind. Just take my word for it. He had a  _ thing _ . ”

“So anyway” she continued, wiping at her tearstained face with a tissue helpfully proffered by Lestrade. “Harold’s wife told me about it last year and I laughed with her over it and forgot it until now. When the police came round to ask me about the murder, they mentioned the rose petals and at first I didn’t remember, but then, later that day, something just clicked and I realized he must have been the one to do it.”

“How tall is your sister?” asked Sherlock

“Well, she was… let me see… rather tall. I’d say five feet, eight inches tall.”

“And how tall are you Miss Grafton?”

“I’m… why do you ask?”

“Indulge me” Sherlock grinned a cold grin and John felt a nervous flutter in the pit of his stomach.  _ He’s onto something _ . He thought. 

“I’d say I’m around five feet three inches. Vanessa always referred to me as ‘her little munchkin’ all the time” and with that, Chloe Grafton dissolved into a fresh spate of tears, burying her face into her boyfriend’s shoulder. He dutifully put a protective arm around her.

“Do you really have to ask her so many questions?” Trevor asked in a defensive tone, squeezing Chloe more tightly against his side.

“He speaks!” Sherlock’s loud exclamation made everyone in the room jump a little. “So Mr….” he paused, looking at Trevor with raised brows”

“Lankenshire” Trevor supplied 

“Mr. Lankenshire.. How long have you been dating Miss Grafton?”

“Oh, I don’t know.. Maybe six months or so?”

“And how long ago did you start dating Vanessa Grafton?” 

“What??!” Trevor Lankenshire’s tone affected shock and surprise.

“Don’t pretend to be taken aback Mr. Lankenshire, despite the fact that you’re wearing very academic looking spectacles, we both know you’re an idiot. I’ll repeat myself one more time. How long ago did you start seeing Vanessa Grafton?”

“What? What do you mean?” Sniffled Chloe Grafton “he wasn’t seeing my sister.”

“Yes he was Miss Grafton, and you knew it. You and he fell in love and decided it would be better to share the family fortune between you than to deal with her anger, or at being cut out of her will when she found out you’d been shagging her lover. So you conspired to kill her”

“What?!” This from Lestrade and John simultaneously. 

“Really gentlemen” Sherlock’s tone was achingly condescending. “At least pretend like you’re keeping up with me” He then turned his fierce gaze back on the shell shocked looking couple. “ You Chloe Grafton couldn’t stand not having Trevor to yourself, but you also couldn’t stand the thought that your sister finding out might mean that she’d cut you out of the will. Furthermore, you hated your other siblings...almost more than you hated Vanessa, and so you hatched a plan with Hipster Genius here to off your sister and get the majority of the inheritance for yourself.”

“How dare you?!!” Chloe Grafton’s face was a mask of offended rage. “I loved my sister more than anything in the world!”

“No you didn’t” Sherlock bit out sharply. “You most certainly  _ did not _ Miss Grafton. In fact, you hated her. When you speak about her, you clench your fists until your knuckles go white...while still keeping your face carefully composed in a mask of loving concern. But you don’t fool me.”

Chloe Grafton’s mouth hung open in shock. 

“Believe me Miss Grafton, I live with someone who regularly betrays their feelings with subtle body language. It’s as loud as a fog horn once you learn to recognize the signs.” John felt his face grow hot at the detective’s words and swallowed audibly. 

“Furthermore” Sherlock continued without skipping a beat. “I noticed something strange about the ligature marks on your sister’s neck. They pulled down in the back, meaning that a shorter person, a significantly shorter person had strangled her from behind while she was standing. You even wore heels to try and equalize the height difference, but unfortunately, they weren’t tall enough to hide the telltale fact that you are significantly shorter than your beloved sister” his voice lingered sarcastically on the word ‘beloved’

“The rose petals were all so that you could blame your brother, whom you hate just as much as your sister, for the murder. At first, I thought they were a ruse to make the murder look like something from a low budget true crime drama, but no, after hearing you implicate your brother, and after smelling Trevor’s cologne on your sister’s body and on himslef when he walked in this room tonight, I put the pieces together. It wasn’t difficult.

“Trevor here helped you lug your sister’s body into the hull of your father’s ship. You asked her to meet you there to discuss a private matter, then strangled her.. Perhaps Trevor helped, I’m unsure of how strong you are, but he was definitely there.”

Both John and Lestrade were looking back and forth between Trevor, Chloe and Sherlock with expressions of surprise on their faces. 

“Now, if you don’t mind” Sherlock continued as if he hadn’t just cracked a murder investigation wide open, “John and I were in the middle of an important conversation when you arrived” this to Greg Lestrade. “Come along John” Sherlock rose and stalked from the interview room without another word. John cast an apologetic glance in Lestrade’s direction, nodded awkwardly at Chloe and Trevor who had both gone very pale and hurried after the taller man who was swiftly walking out of the station and out onto the street.


	10. Chapter 10

Soon they were in the back of a taxi on their way to the flat. “You… you never cease to amaze me” John said with incredulity. “How long did it take you to figure out she’d done it?” he asked Sherlock who sat smugly, looking very pleased with himself in the light of passing street lamps.

“Oh, I had a good idea it was her after I saw the ligature marks and smelled a man's cologne on Vanessa Grafton’s corpse. But I wanted the chance to see them together and to read Miss Grafton’s body language and catch a whiff of Trevor's cologne just to be sure. I’d say roughly 45 minutes all told.” 

John ran a hand through his hair and let out a tired sigh. It had been a long day, made somehow more tiring by witnessing the consulting detective’s lightening fast intuition at work. The man had a way of making John feel slower than usual by comparison. It was worth it though for the thrill of excitement he often felt while accompanying Sherlock on cases. A mixed bag, like everything in the relationship he shared with the maddening detective. Sherlock was silent for the rest of the ride home, and John had just begun to think he intended to drop their awkward conversation from before Lestrade had interrupted them. 

He should have known better. The moment they were back in the flat, John had tried to beg off by saying he wanted to retire for the evening.

“You can’t go to bed yet John. We haven’t worked out what to do about our shared feelings.”

“Jesus Sherlock! Don’t you ever let up?”

“No” the taller man stated frankly.

“Of course you don’t. You’re relentless” John sank into his customary armchair in the sitting room as Sherlock sat in the chair across from him. “What do you want to talk about? What point is there in talking about anything? You seem dedicated to embarrassing me and unsettling me at every opportunity.”

“Whatever do you mean John?”

John sighed deeply, running a hand over his face and pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “The way you talk about my … my feelings for you.. Your feelings for me… it’s like you’re discussing the stock market.. Or plans for dinner. I don’t operate like that. All cold and clinical like you. I .. I… I’ve been struggling with this, and it doesn’t help that you’re so logical”

“Come now John” he could hear a note of teasing affection in Sherlock’s voice “By now you must be aware that logic is my default setting. Did you really expect hearts and flowers after knowing me as long as you do?” The other man was staring at John intently from his position in the chair opposite. “And why are you struggling? It seems pretty simple to me”. 

“How though Sherlock?! How is this simple ?? I am a straight man.. And you.. You’re… Jesus Sherlock, I have no idea what you are”.

“Well, since you’ve asked me so sensitively John, I’ll be happy to answer any questions you might have” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m a bit stressed out. You said that you’re pretty sure that you’re..well… “

“In love with you” Sherlock supplied helpfully and John felt his face grow hot again. 

“Yes.. in.. love with me” He stammered out, feeling as if his tongue had grown three sizes in the past 10 seconds. “Are you… gay? Bisexual? What?”, his pulse was pounding in his ears and he needed to focus on something so that he didn’t pass out. He supposed a highly awkward conversation about his friend’s sexual orientation would be as good a thing to focus on as any. 

Sherlock sighed, steepling his hands below his chin in a way John recognized as something he did when giving something a lot of thought. “I suppose, if you were to fit me into a category, you could say that I’m… gay.” He spoke the word as if it was unfamiliar to him. “I’ve never been attracted to women. Which might be one very compelling reason why I’m not having this conversation with Molly right now”

“Oh, you know about Molly do you?” John was only mildly surprised. 

“I’m not blind John”

“So… “ John ignored this comment and continued “have you.. had… sex before?” he asked, feeling his blush deepen to epic proportions. He and Sherlock never discussed sex. Ever.

“Once” the other man said softly. “It was a long time ago, when I was a teenager. There was this boy at school. We got on well, and I liked him a lot. It was awkward and... incomplete… and while I enjoyed it, it only happened once.”

“Why?” Asked John, curious, despite his deep embarrassment over where the conversation was headed. 

“I drove him away” Sherlock replied simply. Was that a note of regret John could hear in his voice? “He was warm and sweet and wanted to be very affectionate towards me, and I was cold and clinical and terrified of those kinds of connections. I wasn’t warm and personable like I am now”

John chose to ignore this statement. “What happened?” 

“He felt rejected… because frankly I was rejecting him. After we had sex, or tried to rather, he was put off by me being.. Well being me... about emotions and communication and so forth and he drifted away. But not until he told the entire school that I was gay and that I’d hit on him and that he’d been disgusted by it”

“Oh Sherlock. I’m so sorry”

“It’s ancient history John” Sherlock was clearly trying to stifle strong emotion with his usual calm facade and only was only partially succeeding. 

“It still must have been painful”

“It was” the other man admitted in a soft voice, looking down at his hands. He sighed deeply and then got up and paced away from John, hands shoved into the pockets of his pants. “I never trusted anyone ever again.” he said in a voice gone stiff with suppressed emotion. “I found it impossible to be attracted to anyone I couldn’t trust and was dismayed to discover that I didn’t trust anyone in my life… Every time I’d get even a little close to someone, they’d push me away because of something I said or did”

John had stood up too at this point, but waited patiently by his chair, wanting to give Sherlock space. 

“Until you came along” Sherlock had ceased his pacing and stood, back to John, across the room. His shoulders were stiff. 

“Me?” John asked, feeling his heart start beating double time inside his chest and at his temple. His palms had started to sweat slightly and he wiped them hurriedly on his jeans, while keeping his eyes trained on Sherlock. 

“Yes you” Sherlock turned to face him and John was taken aback by the fiery look in his eyes, the tense set of his jaw. Sherlock was unsettled, and John wasn’t used to seeing him like this. “When I met you, I liked you immediately, but I assumed you’d be like all the others. That you’d quickly grow tired of me, or get insulted and leave.” he sighed deeply, clearly struggling a little to get this out. John waited patiently.

“But you didn’t leave” he continued, his voice growing soft and gentle. “You stuck around. I tested you, threw everything I had at you and you took it and told me to shove it. I liked that.” here he smiled wistfully, looking down at the hands he had clasped in front of him. “You were tough and you didn’t take any of my shit, and I respected you for that. And I grew to like you even more..”

John stayed silent, he was aware of the air rushing in and out of his lungs, of his relentlessly rapid heartbeat.. He could feel a wild sort of joy rising up inside him, but he didn’t speak.. Didn’t move. This was very important what Sherlock was telling him. It was more intimate and honest than probably anything else the maddening detective had ever shared. He waited nervously for Sherlock to continue. 

“As the months went by, and you started to help me with cases and I grew used to you living with me, got to see more of your humor and your intelligence, my feelings grew deeper. I knew you were straight, but sometimes, here and there, I picked up on a look in your eyes, a tone in your voice, the way you’d linger near me, that made me think...made me hope that you might possibly share my feelings.

“And so I waited. I waited and watched and kept my attraction a secret. I couldn’t bear it if I reached out and was rejected… and I was afraid to trust again… But then, when I returned from my mission to dismantle Moriarty’s network, you had changed. You were exhibiting pretty clear signs that you felt something for me that went beyond friendship. The way you looked at me.. The way your body reacted to me, it was all much stronger and much easier to see.”

John felt weak and dizzy and he swallowed several times, trying to regain his composure. “What now?” he croaked out.

“Well, now, if you wouldn’t mind.. I’d like to kiss you” Sherlock’s tone was deep and husky with need. 

John’s stomach twisted with sudden nerves and his face grew impossibly hotter, the heat spreading down his neck and into his chest. “I’d… I’d like that” he breathed in a hushed voice. 

In two swift paces Sherlock was in his arms, his long elegant hands were framing John’s face. The detective paused, ice blue eyes searching John’s for a quick moment and then he lowered his lips and placed them, hesitantly and chastely against John’s. 

It was a careful kiss. A gentle kiss. John let out a long breath through his nose and heard Sherlock make a soft noise in the back of his throat as their lips made contact. And then Sherlock’s long fingers were driving themselves up into John’s hair and John’s arms were wrapping around Sherlock’s long, slender waist and pulling the taller man tightly against him. And suddenly the kiss wasn’t quite so chaste anymore. Their mouths opened against each other and John felt Sherlock’s tongue, hot and slick sliding against his own. He felt heat exploding in all the places where the other man’s body pressed against his own and heard himself moan at the sensation. 

John was rock hard in an instant and from the feel of it, so was Sherlock. He splayed hungry hands up under Sherlock’s suit jacket, over the smooth muscular planes of the other man’s back over his shirt and heard a groan of appreciation in response. Sherlock abandoned his exploration of John’s hair and shoved his hands up under John’s jumper and John broke the kiss to gasp at the exquisit feel of Sherlock’s fingers as they explored the bare skin of his stomach. 

“Sherlock… Sherlock… I’ve never done this before.. You know… with a man.” he gasped as Sherlock grabbed his arse in two hands and pulled them more tightly together, causing a volley of hot sparks to explode through John’s pelvis. 

“It’s alright John.” Sherlock’s voice was a low, breathy rumble and the sound of it made John’s knees turn to jelly “I’m not exactly an expert either. We’ll take it slow” John nodded rapidly and reclaimed Sherlock’s soft lips in a passionate kiss. He brought his hands around to start working at the buttons of the other man’s ridiculously tight, deep purple dress shirt. 

“Yeah.” he breathed in between kisses “slow…” After a few short minutes, he’d successfully unbuttoned the shirt and reached greedy hands inside to stroke down the smooth, well muscled planes of Sherlock’s chest and his stomach. The feel of the silky soft skin under his fingertips made John moan deep in the back of his throat and he heard Sherlock's sharp intake of breath through his nose. John broke the kiss to look up into Sherlock’s pale blue, eyes, dilated now to where the blue was only a thin rim around the black circles of his lust blown pupils. “Bedroom. Please. Now” he growled.

Sherlock smiled a wicked smile and pulled John down the hallway by his hand “Yours or mine?” he asked as they went. 

“I couldn’t care less” John blurted out happily as Sherlock pulled them into John’s bedroom. It was the closest after all. They paused briefly to hurriedly remove their shirts, then embraced again, next to the bed, bare skin touching bare skin. John gasped at the unbelievable pleasure of feeling their naked upper bodies make contact for the first time, then cried out in surprised pleausure as Sherlock bent his head to place sloppy, open mouthed kisses down the side of John’s neck. They tumbled onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, kicking off their shoes as they went. 

Sherlock swiftly rolled on top of John and began thrusting against him, rubbing them together in a tight friction that made John’s eyes roll back in his head and made him gasp out at the sharp pleasure emanating from where their bodies were joined. “ Oh dear god Sherlock. That feels so fucking good ” he thrust back up against the slow roll of Sherlock’s pelvis and heard the other man groan in appreciation. 

“I’m almost certain it will feel much better once we get our pants off” 

John couldn’t argue with this logic. Sherlock rolled off of him momentarily and the both of them spent a few awkward and fumbled moments undoing their pants and kicking them, along with their underwear, off the end of the bed and onto the floor. 

This time, when Sherlock rolled back on top of him, they were completely naked, skin against skin all the way down the length of their bodies. John cried out sharply at the feel of Sherlock’s soft skin and hot, hard cock pressed against him and heard an echoing cry from above him. They started kissing again, fast and desperate and wet and began moving against one another in slow, deliberate thrusts of their hips. John wondered absently if it were possible black out from being too turned on. His head was spinning with Sherlock’s smell, with the feel of the other man’s velvety skin moving against his own, the sound of Sherlock’s labored breathing and his small moans and breathless gasps causing sharp pangs of passion to radiate out from John’s core.

“Sherlock… Sherlock” he broke the kiss to whisper urgently against the other man’s soft lips “I.. I probably won’t last much longer if we keep this up. Can I.. can I put my mouth on you?”

In response, Sherlock rolled off of him to lie flat on his back on the bed. John propped himself up on his elbow to get a good look at Sherlock’s naked body and felt himself throb painfully at the sight of him. Sherlock lay, flushed and breathing deeply, his pale skin colored by a pink blush that spread across his face and down onto the top of his chest. His chest and stomach were like sculpted marble. His narrow waist and long, muscular legs were a thing of beauty. And there, at the center of it all stood his beautiful cock. It throbbed gently with Sherlock’s heartbeat.

“Oh dear lord.. You are so fucking beautiful” John breathed.

“Nonsense John. You’re the beautiful one” Sherlock rasped in a strained voice, reaching for John and pulling him down into a kiss. John broke the kiss to murmur self consciously “Keep in mind Sherlock..This is my first time doing this sort of thing. Please don’t have high expectations”.

“I’ve wanted to shag you since the moment I first laid eyes on you John. I doubt a little inexperienced fumbling will make it any less likely that you’ll get me off spectacularly well” Sherlock replied with a mischievous grin. John was adequately reassured and so he moved a bit further down the bed and gingerly took the base of Sherlock’s cock in his hand. Sherlock moaned at the feel of John’s touch, which he found encouraging.

He tentatively engulfed the head of Sherlock’s cock in his mouth, marveling at the soft texture of the other man’s foreskin and the salty sweet taste of him. Sherlock gasped and gripped the sheets tightly in his fists. “Yess” he hissed. “Yes John. That’s very good.”

Heartened, and insanely turned on by the reactions he was getting out of Sherlock, John slid an inch or two of the thick shaft into his mouth. He was rewarded by a sharp cry from above him, so he slid further down on Sherlock’s cock, feeling the thick, hot, hardness of it filling him and pressing against his lips and tongue. It was an incredibly erotic sensation.

“Yes! Oh _ god _ John. That feels.. That’s fucking amazing. You’re really quite good at this” Sherlock’s hands had moved to grip in John’s hair, clenching and releasing rhythmically. John took as much of the thick shaft into his mouth as he could and simultaneously tugged upwards with his hand and Sherlock cried out again, thrusting gently up into his mouth. “Oh fuck.. Your mouth.. It feels so fucking good on my cock. Oh god John. _ Oh fuck _.” John was beyond pleased to hear Sherlock coming undone under his ministrations. Hearing the other man babble half conscious dirty talk was thrilling and new and making it difficult for John not to come untouched from just the friction of pressing himself against the sheets of the bed beneath them. 

He pulled his mouth back on the other man’s cock and sank down again, working his hand concurrently along the shaft. After another gasp and a deep groan from Sherlock, he began moving in a steady rhythm. His jaw felt a bit uncomfortably stretched in this unusual (for him) position, but the thrilling taste and sound and feel of Sherlock’s reactions to his touch more than made up for any minor discomfort.

Sherlock had gone somewhere else it seemed. He was rolling his head back and forth on the pillow, his breath coming fast, a semi-constant stream of moans and praise for John’s skills spilling from his open mouth. “Dear god John. yes. Yes. Please more. Yes. Oh god. You’re so good. You’re so good. Your mouth is so hot. You’re going to make me come soon”. The sound of Sherlock’s deep baritone and the searing hot words he spoke caused John to groan around Sherlock’s cock and move faster with his mouth and his hand. He felt powerful and desired and completely in control and extremely aroused. Here he was, with the smartest detective in the known world, a man he loved and admired and lusted after, naked and pliant and gasping underneath him, begging for release. It was a heady combination of sensations.

Before long, Sherlock’s grip in his hair became painfully tight and he began thrusting up gently into John’s mouth. “John.. John. I’m close. I’m.. oh. Oh god. _ I’m coming _” John gripped Sherlock’s hip with his hand and pumped faster with his mouth and was soon rewarded with a hot splash of semen as Sherlock arched and exploded, gasping out John’s name again and again. John rode through it with him, locked onto Sherlock’s spasming cock, keeping a tight grip on the base and swallowing reflexively as his mouth filled with the sweet-sour taste of Sherlock’s cum.

Eventually, Sherlock’s cries softened to low moans and then to deep breaths and John carefully disengaged, dragging his lips gently up and off of the other man’s cock, noting with interest that it stayed erect, despite him just having had a what sounded like a very strong orgasm. He clambered back up the bed and gathered a dazed looking Sherlock in his arms, placing soft kisses to his cheek and forehead. “That was…That was amazing” he said breathlessly, snuggling against Sherlock’s long body and reveling in the feel of the other man’s still pounding heartbeat against his bare skin.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it” Sherlock said with a deep rumble that John could feel reverberate through his chest. “I found it acceptable” John slapped his shoulder playfully and squeezed him tighter.

“Are you OK?” he asked

“I’m more than OK John. One could say I’m the best I’ve ever been. That was mind bendingly good.” He paused for a moment, pulling John’s body a bit closer to his own. “The question is how are you doing? It was a first for you after all.”

“I think” John said, adopting a speculative air, “that I’ll need to do quite a lot of research into the subject to be able to give a truly informed opinion.”

He could feel Sherlock grinning against the top of his head. “I think though John, that there’s still some investigation that needs to be done here” he turned so that his luminous, pale blue eyes could look search John’s face, and John was suddenly very aware that his needs remained unmet.

They kissed, softly at first, then with gently increasing urgency, and then with their mouths open against each other. John struggled to remember what it was like, a mere hour or so prior when he hadn’t let himself do this with Sherlock. Before he allowed himself to kiss the other man this way, and the memory seemed more and more distant by the second. He wanted to kiss Sherlock forever.

But Sherlock broke away from the kiss, leaving John breathless and throbbing. “I think it’s time I returned the favor, don’t you?” The sound of his words, in that unbearably sexy, deep baritone made John’s insides twist deliciously at the thought of Sherlock’s mouth on him. He moaned against the other man’s lips and was vaguely aware that his pelvis had started to thrust against Sherlock’s hip as if it had a mind of its own.

“Y-yes.. I want that” was all he could find the presence of mind to say. It was enough for Sherlock, who began to place soft yet searing hot kisses down the side of John’s neck, then down onto his chest. John gasped at the tingling trail the other man’s lips were forging across his skin. He rolled onto his back in order to give Sherlock full access to the front of his body and silently prayed he wouldn’t finish too quickly to really enjoy this experience. He couldn’t remember being this turned on before. This on fire with anticipation for a lover’s touch.

Sherlock slowly continued his meandering journey down John’s chest and onto his stomach, placing kisses, some chaste and soft, some open mouthed and wet against the skin of John’s belly. He made appreciative humming noises as he went, his deep voice a low rumble, and the vibrations only added to the sensation of his soft lips on John’s skin. It was almost too much. John reached down with trembling hands and rand them through Sherlock’s soft hair, which regrettably wasn’t long enough to clench in fistfuls the way he really wanted to.

“Please tell me you’re growing your hair out again” He gasped suddenly, then felt himself blush at the revealing nature of his statement.

Sherlock stopped his oral worship of John’s stomach to look up, hisn blue eyes crinkled with amusement. “Would you like that?” he asked with a jaunty tilt of his eyebrow.

“Yes. I want to be able to wrap my hands in it, and you’re so beautiful when your hair is longer.. Like it was.. Before you left”

“Then of course I will” Sherlock smiled and returned to placing tender kisses down the lower half of John’s stomach. He’d reached the trail of hair that led down to John’s groin and the sensation of the other man’s soft lips on that tender flesh made John gasp open mouthed at the sensations. He could feel Sherlock’s breath brush against his throbbing cock, but apparently the world’s cleverest detective had decided to torture him by carefully avoiding direct contact with the straining member. Instead, Sherlock kissed the skin all around the sides of John’s cock, letting it bump against his cheek and nose with a soft, torturous friction without giving John’s cock any direct attention with his hands or mouth. Sherlock’s hands were on John’s hips, holding him in place, and John kept thrusting against the pressure of his hands in a vain attempt to garner more friction for his aching erection.

“Sherlock. Sherlock.. Please. This is torture.” He breathed, looking down at the other man with eyes glazed and shining with passion. “You have to suck me. Please.”

Sherlock grinned wickedly and then placed a gentle kiss to the head of John’s cock, which twitched in response. John threw his head back and groaned. “Oh dear God. Please do that again”. Sherlock complied and began placing little wet kisses to the head and shaft of John’s cock and John struggled to maintain control so that he didn’t come before Sherlock could suck him properly.

Finally, he felt Sherlock’s hot, wet mouth engulf the head of his penis and he cried out at the intense pleasure. Once Sherlock had gotten a taste, he apparently wanted more, because he swiftly sank his mouth down onto John’s cock to the hilt, then began to bob up and down, his tongue swirling against the tortured flesh on every up stroke. “Oh fuck. Oh fuck.. Oh fuh.. I won’t last long Sherlock. You’d better slow down”.

In response Sherlock pulled off of John’s cock with a soft pop and looked up at him with intent eyes. “I love how excited you are. I hope you come quickly. I take it as a compliment. Please John, don’t hold back”. And with that, he sank back down on John to the hilt, and began moving again, up and down the shaft with his velvety soft, hot, wet mouth.

John did not have to be told twice. He reached down grasping Sherlock’s forearms in a tight grip and with a few more strokes of the other man’s talented mouth, he arched his back and exploded, crying out at the sharp clench of pleasure as his orgasm ripped through him. Sherlock took everything he had to give, making a deep, rumbling moaning noise in the back of his throat as he sucked John through the waves of pleasure.

Eventually, John’s cries slowed and the pleasure receded. He had the presence of mind to breifly wonder if poor Mrs. Hudson had been an unwilling audience to the very exuberant noises emanating from their flat, but then realized he didn’t care. She’d been implying that they were a couple for two years now. She could deal with the evidence of it being true.

Sherlock released him from his soft mouth and climbed back up to lie next to John. They lay there, side by side for a moment, both breathing rather heavily, faces flushed, muscles loose, staring up at the ceiling.

“Dear god you’re very good at that” John breathed

“I’ve read some books” Sherlock replied

“Of course you have.”

“And I’ve watched some very informative videos”

“I figured you might have”

“And I studied anatomy charts extensively..and..”

“Ok Sherlock. I get it. You did your homework. And it shows. I don’t think I can walk, or move.”

“Good John, because I really wanted to please you.”

John felt a melting warmth inside his chest. “Consider me thoroughly pleased” he replied with a smile.

“Because I love you”

John’s breath caught in his throat at the sound of Sherlock’s words. He turned on his side and took Sherlock’s face in his hands, turning it so that he could look into the other man’s eyes.

“I love you too Sherlock. I’m in love with you. Deeply.”

“So I deduced John”

“Don’t be an asshole Sherlock”

“Sorry. I’ll work on that”

And with that, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and pulled him close. John snuggled against his side and sighed happily. He knew they’d have to get up tomorrow and face the new day, and the changes of the dynamic between them, and he wasn’t sure how that would transpire… nor exactly how he was supposed to deal with being the boyfriend of an insufferable, maddeningly obstinate consulting detective that made him want to pull his hair out on a daily basis, but he was looking forward to finding out.

Nothing was assured in this world. There were no guarantees. Loving Sherlock had never been easy, and it would probably not get any easier now that they’d gone physical with their connection. But dear god in heaven, it would be worth it. John could never have dreamed how profoundly satisfying it was to make love to the slender, handsome man that now lay in his arms. It was beyond his wildest imaginings. He squeezed Sherlock even tighter and buried his face in the other man’s long, swan-like neck, letting out another happy sigh. Soon, the warmth of Sherlock’s body against his and the sound of the other man’s steady heartbeat lulled John to sleep.


End file.
